


I Believe in No One

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Asexual Sherlock, BDSM, Blood, Double Penetration, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Fisting, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Frottage, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach, Rape, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Now what should we do with you today, Johnny boy?”</p><p>John's kidnapped by dead Moriarty's right hand man, a psychotic person who introduces himself as Sebastian Moran.  He'll do anything to get an answer out of John and all he wants to know is one thing:  "Where is Sherlock Holmes?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just an idea I had in my head that grew way past what I was expecting. I, at first, only expected it to be a one shot, but, over 8,000 words later and no end in sight, I decided to just split it up into chapters. It will be easier that way, really.

It hurts, a blinding pain in his head, not even a slight memory to tell him why.  Light is beating down on his eyelids and he opens his eyes to a slit, hissing at the pain that claws at his eyes and he closes them again, shielding them from the pain once more.  He’s lying on the floor, most likely concrete since its cold seems through his clothes and into his skin.  There’s even the sound of dripping water somewhere nearby.  Just the sound tells him how thirsty he is, his tongue feeling like sandpaper in his mouth.  There’s movement to his right, someone walking toward him, and a shadow falls over his face.

“I swear I heard him make a noise,” comes a low voice.

“You heard wrong,” another voice says from the direction this once came from, “Now get back here and lets finish this poker game before the boss comes back.”

“I’m serious, I think he’s awake.”

He opened his eyes a bit again, staring up at the silhouette above him, his features lost in shadow.  Except for his mouth, which he watched curl into a wicked smile.

“He’s awake, Mikey.”

A chair is scraped across the concrete and he tries to tip his head to see the other man, ignoring the pain that shoots down his spine at the motion.  He bites his tongue to keep back the cry of pain.  The man called Mikey looms over him, too, an almost identical smile on his face.

“Mr. Watson,” he sings, “Welcome back to the world of the living.”

John opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is too dry.  Mikey notices his parched mouth and motions for the other man to do something.  He leaves, letting the light stream directly back on John and he cringes, but is able to keep his eyes open this time, frantically trying to see more of the room.  The first man returns with a glass of water, bits of rust floating in the clear liquid.  Mikey hoists him up and this time he can’t stop the small cry of pain that shudders over his lip.  Mikey forces his head back, his hand gripping onto John’s short hair while his other hand keeps John’s mouth open.  The other man tips the water into John’s mouth, who swallowed on instinct, instantly choking and spluttering.  He tried to move his head out of the way, but Mikey’s hands stayed firm.

Finally, he’s let go and he bows his head forward, heaving and coughing, trying to get the water out of his lungs.  His eyes are watering as his whole body shakes and his head is now screaming in protest.  John hesitantly puts a hand up, rubbing his fingers over the back of his head.  Pulling back, his fingers are not wet, slick with his own blood.  Before he can figure out anymore, the first man grabs him roughly under the armpits, hoisting him up.  He’s thrown back into a chair he wasn’t even aware was there and immediately something is hooked around his wrists, attaching him to the rusty, metal chair’s arms.  His legs, as well, were tied to the chair.  Again they tugged his head back, staring down at him.  He licked his lips, staring back, able to open his eyes fully now.

“What do you want with me?”  He finally managed to wheeze out and Mikey grinned.

“Oh, you’ll figure it out once our boss gets back, pretty boy,” he playfully slapped John’s cheek, who moved away from the contact with a glare.  The man just grinned wider, moving away to continue his poker game with the other man.  John watched them out of the corner of his eyes, not wanting to make it obvious what he was doing.  Mikey seemed to be winning.  No wonder he had wanted the other man to come back to it, with that large pile of crumbled bills in the middle of the metal table.  He finally looked away from them, his eyes gazing over the room, trying to make sense of where he was.  How he got here was still all a blur, most likely thanks to the bump on the back of his head.

All around, he was surrounded by concrete and metal.  Perhaps if he was more observant, could tell what kind of metal the pipes were made of with just a glance, he could tell where he was.  But he wasn’t that kind of person, he wasn’t like- he closed his eyes, taking in a shuddering breath, trying to calm his nerves.  He was a soldier, not a scared child.  Now was not the time to panic, now was the time to plan, observe.  He may not be the best, but he could still decipher people, watch their movements and plan accordingly.  But, for now, all they were doing were playing their game, upping the stakes, and waiting for the big boss to come back, whoever that was.

Hours seemed to fly by, and several poker games passed, Mikey raking in all the prizes and the other man didn’t seem to know when to quit, but his colorful vocabulary seemed to be growing with every game.  Finally there came the sound of a door opening somewhere else in the building, accompanied by the thumping of shoes.  A door scraped open behind him and John tried to twist in his seat to see who was entering the room.

“So our little prize is awake, huh?”

“He woke up a lot quicker than you thought he would,” the other unnamed man replied gruffly.

“Interesting.”

“It seems you all forgot I was a soldier in your calculations,” John offered and immediately bit the inside of his cheek as he realized what he said.  But the man only laughed, moving farther into the room and closing the door behind him.  Finally, he came into John’s field of vision as he walked over to the men’s poker table.  He was wearing an expensive suit, but it didn’t fit him quiet perfectly, as though he had gotten it fit a while ago, and he looked out of place in that room with his fancy outfit.  He reached out, snatching a bill from the table, neither of them protesting as he did so.  Whoever this man was, they were afraid of him, meaning he should have been, too.  All he felt for this man, however, was anger and contempt for kidnapping him like this for what felt like no reason.

“What do you want with me?”

“What do we want with you?”  He moved closer, leaning down in front of John’s face, who recoiled from the man’s breath, which smelled strongly of bubble gum.  The man’s voice was low and husky, but he didn’t smell of smoke.  Coupling that with the bubble gum smell, and John could deduce that this man was trying to quit smoking by replacing cigarettes with sticks of gum.  His hair was wavy, almost to the point where it was curly, and was a sandy blonde color.  He had thick eyelashes, but his left one had a scar running though it, just barely scratched around his eye.  “We want what’s in here,” he brought a callused hand up, poking John in the side of the head, digging his fingernail into his temple.  John flinched away from the painful digit.

He leaned away again, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a silver stick of gum from its depths.  He pulled off the foil and stuck the pink sugary gum into his mouth.  Quickly swiping his tongue over the inside of the foil, he slapped it onto John’s forehead, grinning when it stuck there.  He pressed his fingers gingerly against the foil, making sure there was no fold or crease anymore before backing off to inspect his work.

“Just imagine those covering your entire body,” his grin was lecherous and sent a shiver down John’s spine, “You’d be like a pretty, silver present waiting to be opened.”  He leaned in again, licking up John’s cheek and leaving a trail of saliva in its wake.  He playfully bit John’s cheekbone, who jumped in shock, getting a deep laugh to come from the man’s chest.  John’s chest, on the other hand, was tightening in fear.

“Just tell me what you want,” he said, trying not to let his breathing come out shaky and show how scared he was at the moment.

“The location of someone, that’s it.  Tell us where the man we want is and we’ll let you go.”

“What man?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

It felt like someone had punched him in the stomach, all the air rushing from his body as the words echoed in his mind.  Him?  No, it couldn’t be.  Sherlock was-  He frowned.  Maybe this man didn’t read the newspaper where he came from.  After he got his vital signs back under control, he met the man’s eyes, who was looking down at him expectantly.

“So, do you just want the address of the cemetery or you do want to know what row he’s on, too?”

This time, however, someone actually did punch him in the stomach and John tried as best he could not to lose what little food he had in it.  He choked on the air he was trying to suck back in and his shoulders shook with the effort as he bowed down, staring at his legs, his eyes wide as he struggled to refill his lungs with precious air.  Finally, he managed to bring his eyes back up, smirking at the man.

“Didn't quite like that answer, did you?”

“Tell me where he is.  I know you know where he is.  You’re his most loyal companion, he told you everything.  Now, tell me.”

“He’s dead,” he spit out and this time the man’s fist connected with his face.  He felt his nose snap as his head was thrown back.  He let out a groan of pain, biting his bottom lip to quiet the cry.  Blood dripped down from his broken nose, running over his mouth, trickling off his chin and onto his jumper.  He licked his lips, tasting metal.  His eyes fluttered closed, then back open.  The man was still looking down at him patiently, his lips curled up in a smile.

“We have all the time in the world, John – I can call you that, right?  Of course I can, Johnny boy,” John stiffened at the familiar nickname, “You’re under my “command” here, soldier, and it would be wise if you answered whatever I have to answer, and that you answer them in a matter I find pleasing.  So tell me the truth and save yourself the trouble and pain.”

It was quiet in the room for a while before he let out a shuddering breath, leaning back in his chair again, moving his arms so they were more comfortable, though it was hard when they were tied to a cold metal chair.  He glanced down at the metal, with the rust corroding the arms.  If he tried hard enough, there was a chance he could rip off the arm, maybe slice someone’s neck open with the metal if it came to that.  His legs would be the problem now.  He forced his eyes back up, trying to pretend that most of his attention was on the man in front of him instead of trying to figure out how to kill them and escape.

“So, let me try this again.  Where is Sherlock Holmes?”

“Dead.”

He was suddenly kicked backwards, his heads hitting the concrete, his vision turning black for a few seconds before spotting back.  He turned his head to the side and tried to get back his eyesight, but he felt himself plus the chair tilted back up to a sitting position before he could.  The blood rushed from his head and, slowly, his eyesight came back after he blinked rapidly, counting the time between his breaths to try and calm himself.  That was quickly becoming a losing battle, though, as the others came over to have their fun with him.

“We know he’s alive and taking down all the things Moriarty worked so hard for, bit by bit they’re crumbling down.  There’s only one man in the world who has the brains to do that, to ruin Moriarty even more than he already has.  Sherlock Holmes.”

“He’s dead.  I watched him fall, felt his wrist in my hand as he lay bloody on the pavement.  He had no pulse and, by medical definition, that means he’s dead.  I attended his funeral, for God’s sake, so don’t you dare try to give me false hope and tell me he’s alive!”

It was quiet for a moment, the only noise was John, trying to catch his breath again, the shouting having made him dizzy and his vision spotted again.  Suddenly the man laughed as though that was the greatest joke he had ever heard, wiping the tears the tried to leak from the corner of his eyes.  The others joined in with the laughter, with what seemed to be more out of fear than understanding of the joke.  Suddenly the man’s laughter cut off and his fist was slamming back into John’s stomach.  John gasped for breath, but could never find a lungful and black set in again.

He was conscious just long enough to hear the man growl, inches from his face, “There’s no hope in this room, not even false hope, Johnny boy.”

Then John was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

When he woke up next, a bucket of cold water was being splashed in his face.  He spluttered and coughed, shaking his head to dry and get the water off, but stopping when the action sent spirals of pain through his head.  There was blood in his mouth, too, and he spit it out with the water, now tinged pink.  Before he could recover, another bucket of water was thrown in his face.  He pursed his lips and closed his eyes, feeling the water drip off of him and ignoring the pain it gave him with the wound on the back of the head.  At least the water was cleaning it, he supposed.  Finally, when he supposed he could open his eyes without getting them full of water, he opened them to slits.  The man with the bubble gum breath was standing back in front of him, smirking while working on a pink stick of gum.

“Welcome back once more, Johnny boy,” he smiled wider, then suddenly frowned, leaning in, his bubble gum breath surrounding John, “Now don’t you dare do that again or I’ll break one of your fingers, you understand?”

John nodded numbly, but he figured he’d have a finger or two broken by the time they decided to kill him… or worse.  He harnessed the shudder that threatened to rip through his body and instead clenched his hands at the thought of what they could do to him here, what was running through their minds.  He had no clue how long he had been gone, had been out of it too much to keep track of the time that had passed while he had been held here.  Surely his fellow employees had noticed he hadn’t shown up for his job.  He just hoped that someone would figure it out sooner rather than later and they would somehow find him.  Before he died would be best.

The man brought his hand to John’s chin, tilting his head up, “Now I don’t believe we had the honor of introducing ourselves to you yesterday night.  We all know you, you’ve become acquainted to us before in the past, but this is the first time you met us in person.  We’ve pointed little red dots at you,” he let out a happy sigh, “Those were the good days, you know?  It was just the regular crew.  Sherlock wasn’t pretending to be smeared across the sidewalk and newspaper,” John gritted his teeth, but the man wasn’t done yet, “Moriarty was still alive!”

His hand suddenly gripped tightly around John’s neck and he arched his back, trying to shift away, to get more air, but the hand stayed on him, persistent to choke the life out of him.  Finally, when he thought he’d pass out once again, the man removed his hand with a chuckled, popping his knuckles as he backed away.

“Almost forgot myself there, forgot we had to keep you alive for the meantime.  Can’t get much information from a dead man, now can we?”  John shuddered to catch his breath, watching the man walk away to the poker table.  As soon as he saw what was laid out on the surface, his blood ran cold.  He saw metal glinting, knives ready for use and he didn’t want to consider what they were going to used on.  A pistol lay next to them.  Last resort, he supposed.  He closed his eyes as though that would make it all disappear.  He may have been a soldier, but nothing had prepared him for anything like this.

“Those two standing in front of you are Mikey and David.  Me?  I’m Sebastian.  Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s right hand man.  Was Moriarity’s right hand man until Sherlock went and shot him in the head!”  He was angry again, picking up one of the knives and stabbing it into the table.  The others shifted nervously at his outburst.  There was really only one reason the man would tell him their names.  They didn’t expect him to live to the end of this.  Despite that, John wasn’t going to think like that.  No reason to give up everything yet.

“What are you talking about?  Sherlock didn’t shoot anyone on that roof.  Moriarty shot himself!”

Sebastian turned, ripping the knife back out of the table and pointing it at him.  His face was twisted in fury, “Don’t you dare say that!  It’s a lie!”

“The angle from which the bullet was shot means that only Moriarty could have done it.  He stuck his gun right into his mouth and shot his own brains out.  Sherlock had nothing to do with that death, yet he still fell.”

“I said shut up!”  He was upon John in seconds, his knife swinging down and imbedding itself into John’s hand.  He tilted back his head and let out a scream as the metal sank through his right hand, piercing it through all the way before it was mercilessly ripped back out again.  John’s whole body was shaking in shock as blood began to drip down the chair, red crawling over the back of his hand like cracks.  The pain was gone now, but would return once the shock had worn off.  John knew that all too well from the time he got shot in the shoulder, feeling like his shoulder was on fire one second before it became nothing the next, lost in the heat of battle, the adrenaline.  However, it had quickly flared back up again once that had all disappeared.

“For Sherlock to be alive, while Moriarty dead?  That doesn’t seem to be that fair, now does it?”  John kept his tongue in check this time, his right arm beginning to shake.  It would start to hurt like hell in about a minute and he needed all the composure he could get.  The man was ranting to himself now, but John wasn’t paying attention to his words anymore.  Then the pain swept over him again and he bit down on his bottom lip, tasting blood in his mouth.

“Are you listening to me?”  John snapped his head back up, back to attention, but it wasn’t quick enough.  Sebastian backhanded him and more blood exploded in his mouth, “Now answer my question: Where is Sherlock Holmes?”

“He’s dead.”

Sebastian sighed in frustration, moving back over to the table to grab something else off it.  He tucked the knife into the back of his pants.  This time he uncoiled a rope from surface, walking back with it clutched in his hands, pulled taut.  Without a word, he tied it around John’s chest, securing him to the chair even more firmly than he had been before.  He got the knife back out and, with a flick of his wrist, sliced it across John’s cheek without any hesitation.  Warm blood trickled down the side of his face now, joining the now dry blood on his jumper from his broken nose.

“Where is he?”

“My answer’s not going to change just because you’ve tied my torso to the chair.”

“Turn him,” Sebastian said, turning his back to John and walking back toward the table of instruments.  The others moved toward John, one on each side and they both grabbed onto the chair firmly.  They lifted him up and, immediately, he knew what was going to happen.  He closed his eyes and braced himself.  As one, the lifted him and turned him upside down.  Immediately, the blood started rushing toward his head, the blood from his cut now running toward his hair instead and the wound in his hand protested at the change.  Water was running in the background, but then shut off.  The floor was suddenly farther away as they lifted him up even higher and a bucket was water was slid under his head.

“I’ve always wanted to try this, you know?  I’m getting a little tired of just wetting a cloth over someone’s face.  But, who knows?  Maybe you’ll get to do that later, hmm, Johnny boy?  Now, are you going to answer my question with the real answer or we’re going to give you a makeshift bath to get the answer out that head of yours?”

John just stared back, sure that he would bite his own tongue if he even tried to speak.  Just like that, he was dunked down into the water.  He tried not to struggle, to hold his breath while waiting for them to pull him back up, but water entered his nose, choking him and he squirmed, flexing his unwounded hand against the chair, scraping his nails over the metal.  His lungs felt ready to burst and he finally let all the air out, bubbles dancing around his head.  Only when he thought it would be too much was he lifted back up.  He sputtered and choked, still held upside down.

“Do you want to change your answer now?”  Sebastian asked, crouching down so he was level with John’s eyes.

“Bite me,” John managed to hiss and he watched Sebastian shake his head in disappointment, a small smirk on his face.

“Oh, don’t worry, I plan on doing that eventually.”

Then he was underwater again.  John lost track of how many times they plunged him into the bucket, his lungs slowly filling up with water.  But, finally, he blacked out, as though his mind finally had mercy on his body.

* * *

 

John woke up on the cold floor again, but this time he was in complete darkness.  He shifted and heard the clinking of chains.  Metal encircled his wrists and, with a few experimental tugs, he figured he had a few feet of chain to move about.  He struggled to sit up and realized that his jumper, socks, shirt, and trousers had been removed, leaving him in nothing but his pants.  He moved and his knee hit metal.  Using his leg, he moved it up toward his hands.

As soon as he reached down and touched it, he recognized what it was and a relieved smile spread on his face.  A tray with food had been left in the room with him.  He didn’t care what was one it, only that it was actually food.  They weren’t going to kill him immediately, which means that the police had more time to find him.  That also meant he was in for a lot more than what he had already done, which was basically nothing.  He figured they were only just beginning and the lack of clothes was not helping with that.

He inhaled the food in seconds, not really sure what he put in his mouth, just that it satisfied his stomach for the meantime.  He hadn’t realized how hungry he had been until that moment.  Now he just hoped that they would keep away from his stomach so he wouldn’t lose what little food he had now.  He scooted up against the wall, gathering his legs up to his chest to keep in the warmth, even though the chains were cold against his bare back.  He settled his cheek against his knees and slipped back into sleep.

* * *

 

There was a clinking and the metal fell from his wrists.  He opened his eyes, his vision blurry.  He tried moving, but his limbs refused to listen to him.  They hoisted him up, carrying him out into the room he had been held in earlier, the chair still standing in the middle of the room, blood dripped around it.  But then they kept dragging him toward a door near the front of the room that had been closed before.  Now it was wide open, light spilling into the dark room.  His breath caught as he saw what was in it.  A bed.  He tried to struggle, but still couldn’t move.  His vision was still swimming in front of his eyes.  Drugs.  He could feel them in his system now.  What exactly had they put in his food?

He was dumped on the bed unceremoniously, left staring up at the ceiling.  It was only when he heard another pair of footsteps enter the room that he managed to turn his head to watch Sebastian enter the room, a grin twisting his face into something inhuman.  He shucked off his suit jacket, handing it to one of the other men, Mikey.  Sebastian sat down on the side of the bed next to John, reaching out and petting his head as though he was a cat.  John tried to squirm away from the touch, but it was a lost cause, his limbs still too heavy for his body.

“What do you want?”  John asked, though he already knew the answer.

Sebastian leaned down, his lips next to John’s far ear, and whispered, “Holmes,” a sort of giggle bubbled in his throat, and then he continued, “You also told me to bite you, so here we are.”

Sebastian nuzzled his nose into the curve of John’s neck and immediately he felt sick at the touch.  The man’s hands were spread out over his chest, his fingers lined up with his ribs.  He was only somewhat aware of the other two leaving the room, but the door remained open, the only source of light.  Then John was being dragged further onto the bed, turned on to his stomach and was straddled from behind.  His broken nose pressed painfully into the bed and he had to turn his head to breath, immediately regretting his decision, as he could now see the man behind him.  Sebastian leaned down over him again, his warm breath ghosting over the back of John’s neck and the hairs on the nape of his neck stood up as the warmth rushed over them.  Then his teeth were on him, biting hard enough to draw blood.  John whimpered and squirmed, trying to get away.

He heard Sebastian giggle again and then the man’s hands were back, spread out under his body, finding the places they had been before.  His hands drifted up while his tongue lapped at the blood from the bite wound.  His thumb and forefingers found his nipples and immediately set to work flicking them, twisting them, rubbing them.  This was wrong.  Wrong on so many levels.  John managed to grasp onto the fabric beneath him, forcing his arms to pull himself forward, away from the man.  But Sebastian just pulled him back, tightening his thighs around John, and went back to nipping at his neck.  It wasn’t until later that John realized that the man was actually rutting against him, the bulge in his trousers evident.  John swallowed heavily, his heartbeat accelerating.

As though Sebastian knew what he was thinking about, he gave quite a vicious thrust on John’s back before latching his teeth on the rim of John’s ear, “Oh, don’t worry.  I’m not going to ride you.  Not yet, at least.”  He removed his teeth and lapped at the blood dripping from the wound, “The drugs should almost be out of your system now, so lets get back to the actually business of things, shall we?’

Suddenly intense pain burned through his back as he felt Sebastian began to carve something into his skin.  Just where had be gotten that knife from?  He had no clue what was being written, too lost in the pain and blood, biting down on the sheets below him on the bed as though they would help.  His fingers scrambled for something solid to hold onto, but had to be content to twisting his fingers into the fabric once again, pulling on it so roughly he was surprised he didn’t rip it.  The wound on his hand screamed in protest at the straining.  He tied to buck away from the blade, but Sebastian had a hand on the back of his neck, holding him down, along with straddling him still.  He had nowhere to go, but sit there and take the pain.  After what seemed like an eternity, the blade withdrew, but the wound stayed like fire on his skin.

Sebastian’s presence left, leaving him lying on the bed, still vulnerable, but seemingly safe for the meantime.  They didn’t leave him alone for long, though.  He felt hands on him again, lifting him up.  His limbs obeyed him this time around, but he made no move to escape, just moved with them and sat down back in the chair.  The pain flared up again as soon as his back touched the metal, but he just grit his teeth and bore with it.  His wrists and ankles were once more tied to the chair and he waited for them to turn their backs, have their attention more focused on the weapons instead of him before he gave a few experimental tugs on his bindings.  There may have been a chance for him to rip them loose, but it seemed more likely that he could rip off the arms of the chair.

Then they were back and he snapped their attention back to them, his eyes watching them warily as they approached him.  David leaned down and gripped John’s hair in his hand, ripping his head backward, exposing his throat.  He felt cold metal touch his bared neck and he shivered without meaning to.  The blade cut him and then withdrew, leaving the blood to leak down his throat, but the hand stayed in his hair.  He looked left and right out of the corner of his eyes, trying to see what they were doing.  Sebastian looked to be in charge, as usual, his smirk on his lips as he circled John, his prey.

“Now what should we do with you today, Johnny boy?”


	3. Chapter 3

In the end he passed out again and when he woke up, he found himself back in the same pitch black room they had chained him up in last time.  With a little searching, he found another tray with food on it, but he pushed it away in disgust.  On one hand, he didn’t want to be drugged, but, on the other hand, it would be nice to be drugged if he had to be sexually assaulted again.  He wasn’t sure how long he had been gone now, but it felt like a few days and the police were no doubt looking around for him at this time.  His whole body was aching from the cuts all over his body.  Most had been shallow, just little precise cuts when he answered their question ’wrong.’  But some had been done out of anger when Sebastian had had enough, his steady hand carving patterns deeply into John’s body, who had arched his back and tried to not scream.

He had never gotten a chance to see exactly what he was carving into his body, but the precise twists and movements of the man’s hand told him that he knew exactly what he was permanently putting on John, on both his back and chest.  One day he figured Sebastian was going to snap and dig his knife in a little far, then just stand back, and watch him bleed out on the chair.  He tried to move, but his whole body protested.  He ignored the aches and pains and tried to lay his feet flat against the floor.  As soon as he finally managed to do that, though, stars of pain flared up behind his eyes and he had to bite his tongue to keep down the scream that ripped at his throat at that moment.  He didn’t even need light to see what they had done.  A long cut from toes to heel ran down the bottom of each of his feet, making walking nearly impossible now.  Now freshly split, blood oozed out of the cuts.  It seemed like his entire body was bleeding on the ground beneath him.

He waited this time, still not eating any of the food they had set there in there despite how much his stomach growled at him.  When the door to the room opened, he had to blink in the sudden light.  He heard the disappointing tsking and then Sebastian was next to him looking down at his food.

“We didn’t even put anything in it this time around, Johnny boy,” he picked up the tray and John resisted the urge to lunge for it, get it back.  Sebastian left and the other two men entered the room, pulling off the cuffs and pulling him up.  He let out a little cry as he stood, his knees almost buckling beneath him.  “Oh, come on, you can walk to the other room, can’t you?”  Sebastian was back, chewing noisily on some bubble gum.  “Show us some of that dignity you still have inside ya, huh?”

So John gritted his teeth and did just that, walked to the room with the bed, a trail of bloody footprints in his wake.  As soon as he was standing over the bed, he was shoved down into it by David, who was already pulling off his own shirt.  Mikey was on the other side of the bed and grabbed hold of John, pulling him onto the bed fully.  Then they were both upon him while Sebastian stood back this time, a smile on his face.

“What kind of leader would I be if I was the only one to get a little fun with you, huh?”  He leaned in, “Of course if you tell me where your precious Sherlock, your Master, is, I’ll call them off.  So, have you got an answer for us yet?”

John stays quiet and Sebastian moved away again, a quiet sign for the others to begin.  There was the sound of a belt being removed and John looked up in shock to see Mikey pulling his belt out of the loops.  John lunged for the side of the bed, desperate to get away, but they both grabbed him and threw him back, a well aimed punch to his stomach delivered in the scuffle stops him and John curled up on himself, desperate to make himself smaller, unnoticeable.  The belt clinked loose and John’s arms were painfully wrenched upward, pinned against the bed.  The belt was wrapped around his wrists, restricting his movements.  He tugged against the binding, trying to get loose, but it didn’t give at all.  There was a tongue on his neck know, licking up the curve.  John grimaced and pulled away, closing his eyes.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Sebastian’s voice cut through the crinkling of the bed and the groans the two men were making as their tongues and hands explored his body, “No kissing.”

John snapped his eyes open to see David’s face inches from him.  The man frowned and withdrew, scooting farther down.  John felt the breath at the waist of his pants before he felt the fingers flitting at the edge of it, brushing over his skin.  They followed the dusty trail of hair from his navel to where they disappeared under his pants.  Slowly, calculating, the fingers began to worm their way underneath the waistband, touching the skin below.  John bucked and twisted his body, trying to throw the two off, to get those fingers away from him, anywhere but there.  But nothing he did helped, they just held onto him tighter.

He tried again, but Mikey brought his fingers down to the scar on his shoulder, fingers dancing over the scar tissue and John immediately stilled, his eyes wide.  The man smiled in victory before viciously digging his fingers into the scar.  John couldn’t stop the scream this time, as the pain ripped through his body, nerve endings firing.  The fingers in his pants were lower now, he could feel the heat radiating from the hand on his prick.  Another inch and the man would have him in his hand.

“Stop!  Please, stop!”  John didn’t he realized he had screamed it until the words had already been in the air for a few seconds.  Then he sucked in his breath and waited for his punishment.  To his astonishment, the hands withdrew and Mikey took his belt back.  John stayed in the same position for a while, not quite sure what had just happened, but then Sebastian was back, his silhouette filling his entire vision.

“We don’t want to spoil you too soon, now do you?  Have to save that for later, you and me,” then his lips were on John’s, a mess of teeth, lips and tongue.  John pushed against him, but the man didn’t even budged, just pushed John further into the bed, viciously attacking his mouth.  With a quick bite to the lip, he finally withdrew, leaving John with blood dripping down his chin and leaking into his mouth, the taste of metal exploding in his mouth.  They grabbed him, throwing him back up onto his feet and led him back out to the all familiar chair.  As they tied him down to the metal, he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t actually shaking.

* * *

John had his head tilted back, his eyes open, and the light from the bulb hanging over him seemed a bit too bright.  He blinked, running his dry tongue over his equally parched, chapped lips.  The chair started to tilt backwards and he jerked forward on instinct, but it kept tilted back until it landed with a crash, his head colliding with the ground, stars in front of his eyes.  He wondered just what number concussion that one was.  But then a cloth was placed over his face and instantly became alert, twisting against his bindings, which were rubbing his wrists and ankles raw from all the struggling.  And then came the water, soaking the towel, leaking through the material, and spilling over his face.  It felt like he was drowning for the second time that week and he tried to dislodge the towel from his face, to no success.

Between bouts of anger, stabbing, slicing, flogging, sexual assaults, and lack of nourishment, John figured he had been in this building for about a week now.  Even now, he still gave his broken, ‘He’s dead’ answer, much to the anger of Sebastian, who would spit in his face, demanding to have the truth out of him before he carved something more into John, over his ribcage, across his spine, on his thighs.  His skin was Sebastian’s blank piece of paper and he wondered what would happen once he ran out of skin to carve or when he inevitably bled to death from all the wounds.  He still hadn’t tried to decipher the words on his skin, he figured it was best not to.  He didn’t want to know these permanent scars.  Already he had abandoned his plan to escape, dramatically rip the arms off of the chair and slash at the three; he was almost too weak to walk now, forget about taking apart a metal chair, even a rusty, old one.

He was going to die.

The fabric was finally removed and words were thrown at him, but John couldn’t even must the strength to keep his eyes open, much less listen to the sentence he already knew was being asked.  So he didn’t reply, less punishment if he just let his head loll to the side, as though he was unconscious and they would drag his body to the dark room, where he would spend the next hours sleeping until they dragged him out again, taking him to the closed room and chaining him back up to the wall.  He heard the tray clatter near his head, it sounded more empty than usual.  As soon as the door closed, he opened his eyes, trying to see where the tray was in the dark, but couldn’t make it out.  His hand drifted out, brushing over the floor until it hit the metal.

Carefully as he could, he scooted the tray toward him, not even managing to sit himself up a bit.  They were giving him less solid food now, they knew his palate was much different now.  He could hardly keep anything down now, especially when they forced him to eat it, he would usually throw it up within minutes.  Slowly, achingly slowly, he managed to roll himself up a bit, licking at the food in the tray.  Applesauce.  But it may as well have been steak, it was so delicious.  He licked at the tray until all the apple sauce was gone.  There was a plastic bottle of water as well and, with the help of his teeth, he was able to twist the top off.  He guzzled down the water, choking on it a bit at first before he got his throat to swallow it normally, quenching his thirst.  Finally, he threw the bottle across the room and settled back down, his entire body on fire, and curled up in a ball, falling to sleep.

* * *

It was soft when he woke up, but his hands were still chained, though less loosely than before, kept up above his head.  With bleary eyes, he glanced up at his wrists.  Immediately he recognized the headboard of the bed.  They had dragged him out of the room while he was still asleep and attached him to the bed.  He moved his legs, ignoring the pain shooting up his spine.  The movement, however, alerted him to something else.  His pants had been removed.  The pain was instantly forgotten as he struggled against the cuffs, his heart beat accelerating in fear.  His chest felt as if it was being pinched, his ribcage too small for his organs now.  He pulled at the chains, trying to loosen the wooden bar of the headboard it was strung around, but his strength was next to nothing.  He whined in frustration, giving one last tug before he flopped back down, closing his eyes and keeping the tears prickling at the back of his eyes at bay.

A shadow fell over him, someone moving in front of the open doorway and he forced his eyes open.  Sebastian walked to the foot of the bed, his suit jacket gone, and he was rolling up the sleeves as he looked casually down at John’s naked form.  John was just glad he couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face as he tried to squirm his lower body, hiding himself from view.  Before he knew what was happening, the man was upon him, straddling his hips.  He moved, rubbed against John and finally the man could see Sebastian’s smile in the darkness, his white teeth shining in the sparse light.  And then those teeth were on his neck, scraping over his skin while his hands explored every inch of his bare skin, traveling lower and lower.

But then his hands removed and Sebastian inched upward, his hands instead going for his own belt, pulling at the leather.  The metal clinked as he pulled on the belt, pulling it open.  His hands worked at the button of his trousers now and John tilted his head up and to the side, anywhere but there.  Sebastian let him do that for the moment, unzipping his trousers and putting his hand inside.  With his free hand, he gripped onto John’s head forcing him to look back and, with a tight squeeze, forced John’s mouth open.  He pulled himself out next, already stiff and thick.  John felt the need to throw up and swallowed heavily, closing his eyes against the sight.

Sebastian was breathing on his neck, “Your mouth is going to be busy for while now, so if you have something you want to tell me, that I want to hear, I suggest you do so now.”

John slammed his head forward, feeling a small twinge of victory, and a larger one of pain, when his forehead collided with Sebastian’s face.  “He’s dead,” he spit out, glaring up at the man over him.  Sebastian’s face contorted in rage and he swiped out his ever present knife, his free hand pushing down on John’s forehead while he leaned down, knife in hand.  Slowly, he began to carve something under his collarbones, something long that it spanned the entire width of his chest.  Once done carving in the words, he swiped his tongue over them, sucking at the wound.  His mouth came away red and when he placed his mouth on John’s all he could taste was metal and bubble gum.

Then the lips were gone and his hands were opening his mouth again, shoving himself inside.  Now John really wanted to throw up as Sebastian grunted, thrusting into his mouth.  As he pushed in further, John gagged on the length, tears spilling out of the corner of his eyes.  The tip was hitting the back of his throat repeatedly as the man moaned above him, his head tilted back in bliss.  One of his hands snaked up toward John’s hair, finally gripping at the short hair.  With a twist of his hand, he pulled John’s head back and began to thrust even more vigorously.  After several minutes, his breathing got shallower and his movements more erratic.  John squeezed his eyes shut as he waited for the inevitable, tears still streaming down the side of his face, he couldn't stop them now.  His hands gripped tight on the sheets.

With a groan, the man shuddered over him, thrusting himself deeply into John’s throat.  He spilled himself right into John and the man could feel himself choking.  He needed air.  Sebastian pulled back a little and John coughed on the air that finally rushed to his lungs.  But Sebastian stayed in his mouth, looking down at him.  Light was glinting off the man’s eyes and John could almost feel the lust rolling off of him still, even after having cum inside of John’s throat.

“Clean it,” Sebastian’s voice was gravely and he moved forward a bit again, the hold on John’s hair tightening slightly.  In his other hand something glinted.  The knife.  Immediately, John hesitantly licked the tip of the man’s cock before tightening his lips around it.  He ran his tongue over the bottom of him before sucking on it.  Sebastian pushed himself in farther and John continued sucking.  His tears were running more steadily now.

“You’re a natural cock sucker, aren’t ya?”  Sebastian grunted, “Didja ever suck Sherlock’s dick like this?  I bet you did.  I bet he made you beg for it, made you get on your knees,” he pulled out, scooting down and attacking John’s lips, “But you’re my little bitch now,” John whimpered into his mouth, “Tomorrow I’ll make you completely mine.  That’s a promise.”

John’s stomach couldn’t take it anymore and he twisted painfully to the side, throwing up onto the bed until his throat felt raw and all he could do was dry heave.  He barely felt the cuffs being removed from his wrists until he was being pulled up to his feet, practically dragged back to the room they kept him in, back to the cold floor without even a pair of pants to keep back the chill.  Sebastian crouched down next to him, tangling his fingers in John’s hair and giving it a sharp tug.

“We are going to have so much fun tomorrow, you and I.  I’ll be sure to get you up bright and early so we can get in a little fun with Mikey and David on that chair you know so well now,” he bit the top of John’s ear, then lapped at the blood, “See you tomorrow, Johnny boy.”

And then Sebastian was gone and the darkness came again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the act of rape. I've already warned everyone already, but I'm just doing it again.

The chair was so cold now, against his naked body.  He had never realized just how much his pants had given him warmth.  Now that they were gone, his whole body was shivering from the chill and fear coursing though his body.  Sebastian ran a finger lightly down John’s arm and his shivering only got worse at the touch.  He heard Sebastian chuckle at his discomfort, his other hand fiddling with a knife, his favorite one.  He cleaned it regularly, making sure to keep it shining, free of John’s own dried blood.  On a few occasions, John had even heard him sharpening it, keeping it in its best shape for when he wanted it to taste John’s skin.

“Same question as always, Johnny boy.  Answer carefully.”

John stayed quiet, shivering and accepting that no matter what he did, his fate wouldn’t change.  Sebastian noticed his change in stance, expression.  Even yesterday, he had been fighting at first.  But now he did nothing.  Sebastian reached over and swiftly broke one of the fingers on John’s already injured right hand.  John let out a whimper in response closing his eyes tightly, as though that would block out the pain.  Again and again Sebastian asked him the same question and each time John refused to answer, he broke another finger until all the ones on his right hand were broken.

“Now, now.  If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to move onto your left hand.  I don’t think either of us will enjoy that, as I plan on getting your hand to work on me later.  Broken fingers will just hinder the pleasure.  So tell me, John,” he reached up and gave John’s hair a nasty yank, “Where is Sherlock Holmes?”

John just looked up at him, his eyes pleading, silently remaining in the chair, his entire body broken and quivering.  Sebastian sighed and stood up.

“All right.  Mikey, David,” the two snapped to attention, Mikey having been palming himself through his own trousers, “You’ve yet to claim part of him as yours.  Do so now.”

They grinned eagerly, getting their own knives from the table and approaching John.  He knew what was coming next, the bite of the metal all too familiar that it almost was like something happening to someone else now.  He shut it out, pretending that it had never happened, that the words he never studied didn’t exist at all.  Fresh blood ran over his left hipbone as Mikey began to carve something over it, his hand less steady than Sebastian’s and his tongue curling out of his mouth in concentration.  David was quicker and more firm that Mikey, carving his words into John’s side, down his rib cage.  His blade cut in a little deeper and John screamed as he felt the knife slice over his bone.  When they were done, they retreated again, wiping John’s blood on their shirts, already caked with blood from previous times.

Sebastian suddenly tied a cloth around John’s eyes, efficiently turning off his sight.  He felt the chair tipping backwards, slowly this time and he didn’t hit his head on the floor as usual.  There was the sound of them shuffling about, moving equipment and getting ready for whatever it was they were going to do to him.  He didn’t have to wait long to figure it out.  A drop of water suddenly dripped onto his forehead and he flinched at the sensation, shaking his head to dislodge the drop.  But water kept dripping on his head and he finally realized what they were doing.  Chinese water torture.  He should have figured they would have tried it eventually.  They like to be creative with their water in this room, from drowning to waterboarding, and now this.

He bit his bottom lip, trying not to cry out as the drips of water kept coming, hitting him in the forehead, and sliding down the side of his head.  He was terrified.  Not just of the torture, but of the water now.  The water itself was like a blade, sinking into his brain.  He had heard of victims of waterboarding during the war, how they had changed, becoming shaky messes during rain storms or even at the sight of a shower.  He had never expected to become like one of them.  But he supposed he had something better than those prisoners of war did.  He would never get out of this.  He would never have to fear going out into the rain because he never would again.  It was a horrible thing to be comforted by, but, in this situation, he took what he could.

The water dripped down on him for hours, maybe even a day.  He didn’t know.  He had stopped trying to keep track of how long he had been there a long time ago, perhaps even his first day here.  It just all blurred together now, one big stretch of torture, blades, blood, and sex.  Even with water so close, teasing him, driving him insane, he was so parched, his mouth like sandpaper.  He let out a small cry; it may have been the first noise he had made the entire time, but it was impossible for him to know.

There was the sound of movement in the room, someone finally walking over toward him instead of playing poker on the table.  The dripping stopped without him even realizing it until the cloth was suddenly pulled away and his seat up righted once more.  The rest of the binds were removed and then he was pulled to his feet.  He didn’t even flinch when the bottom of his feet touched the floor, the cuts on the bottom reopening, fresh blood spilling out once more.  They led him to the bed and he fell onto it, curling up on himself, his injured hand clasped to his chest.

A hand wormed its way between his legs, easing them apart while another turned him so he was now on his stomach.  He had to throw out his hand to stop it from being crushed beneath him.  The hand between his legs gently brushed over the inside of his thigh, nearing his arse and he let out a whimper, his head turned to the side and his eyes squeezed close.  A low laugh rumbled in Sebastian’s chest as he listened to the sound getting more desperate as the hand drew nearer.

“Oh, don’t worry, Johnny boy,” the man whispered sinisterly into his ear, “I’ll be gentle this first time.”

John bit the sheets as his fingers dipped into the cleft of his arse.  As Sebastian’s other hand left his back, more hands replaced it, holding him down and making sure he wouldn’t try to make a run for it, not like he could anyway.  A finger gently teased his opening, circling around the pucker.  When it delved in, John arched his back in pain at the sudden intrusion, trying to pull away as the finger was pushed all the way in.  Sebastian let it settle there for a moment before he withdrew it, then thrust it back in, fucking him with his finger.  John clenched down on it, still whimpering into the bed.

“God you’ve got a tight arse,” Sebastian murmured, “You sure Sherlock didn’t get a piece of this?”  With the whimper that came from John, he smiled wider, leaning down to lick up John’s spine, “Good.  I get your tight ass and your virginity all to myself today.”

He removed his finger and held all his fingers up toward John’s face, “Suck on them or you’re getting no lubrication.”

John opened his mouth, hot breath curling over the fingers before they were shoved into his moist mouth, his tongue running over and between the digits.  Once Sebastian deemed them wet enough, he pulled them out of John’s mouth with a wet plop.

“Why so eager all of a sudden?”  Sebastian said, harshly thrusting in two of his fingers now.  John let out a whimper of pain.

“Just get it over with,” he was shaking beneath their hands.  As an answer, three fingers delved in, spreading him open and at his mercy.  Now he shoved in a fourth finger, stretching him even further.  Then, his fingers were removed and both of his hands harshly gripped onto John’s hips.  Something larger, thicker, nudged at his entrance and John arched away, turning his head toward the bed, careful to keep his broken nose from getting squashed, his forehead pressed against the fabric.  His unbroken hand clenched tightly at the sheets.  One of the hands suddenly left, pressing down next to John’s face, the fingers outstretched again.

“Suck on them again,’ Sebastian growled.  John turned his head again, his mouth opening obediently and the fingers popped right back in.  He swirled his tongue around them before they were removed once more and he used the saliva on them to lubricate his dick before nudging it at the entrance again, his hand back on John’s hip.  John returned to his earlier position, his entire body tense.  “If you don’t relax, it’ll hurt like hell.”

John tried to relax, he really did, but as soon as he nudged more, all the muscles in his body clenched and when the tip finally pushed past the ring of muscle, he let out a cry of pain as his body was breached.  Sebastian pushed in slowly until he was all the way in, his thick cock heavy inside his body, pushing at his insides.  John whimpered, no longer trying to hold back the tears.  Sebastian stayed still for a moment before circling his hips, causing John to cry out at the sensation and the pain the movement brought.

Suddenly he pulled back and it felt like John’s insides were going with him.  When the head of his cock almost left, he slammed back in, shoving John forward a few inches.  The sudden movement made his face slam against the bed and he screamed from the pain coming from his face and his arse.  His thrusting got more energetic as the time wore on and John was still flaccid.  Until Sebastian reached around him and wrapped his fingers around his dick.  With expert hands, thumb swiping over the tip of his cock several times, John couldn’t help himself feel a bit aroused, blood pooling to his groin.  He watched as Sebastian tugged his foreskin down off the tip, his hand moving in time with his thrusts, keeping the rhythm.

He was hard now and he had to bite his lip to keep back the groans of pleasure.  This wasn’t supposed to feel good, he wasn’t supposed to get aroused from this.  Sebastian changed his angle, his prick brushing over his prostrate and sending spirals of pleasure through his body.  He gasped and immediately clapped his left hand over his mouth.  Sebastian smiled, leaning down over John’s prone body.

“Never thought you’d like it, did ya?”  He licked the rim of John’s ear, “Don’t worry, I’ll turn you into my own little slut in no time.  You won’t accept anyone but me.”

He accented his words with shallow thrusts, sometimes getting lucky and striking John’s prostrate, making John quiver every time it was hit.  He was so close.  So close to coming now, but, oh god, he didn’t want to.  He didn’t want to come, to seem like he enjoyed it, he wouldn’t allow showing that kind of weakness in front of these men.  But if those thrusts kept hitting him in the exact same spot- he groaned, ready to spill himself, but suddenly Sebastian’s hand clamped harshly around his penis, preventing him from coming.  John nearly screamed, his whole body begging to let loose.

‘You’re gonna have to beg, Johnny boy,” he whispered into John’s ear, “I’m gonna have to hear you beg before I give you some release,” John whimpered, pushing back against him.  “I don’t hear you begging.”

“Please,” John cried before he could stop himself, biting his tongue as the word slid from his lips.  Sebastian circled his hips again.

“What was that, I couldn’t quite hear you?  Say it again, Johnny boy,” he teased him.

“Please,” John sobbed, “Please let me come.”

And he did, releasing his hand from John’s dick.  His back arched as he was able to release and could distantly hear himself screaming.  Once his orgasm stopped, he slumped forward onto the bed, all the energy in his body spent, his breathing coming in shuddering inhales.  Sebastian gave a few more thrusts before he grunted, low and primal over John, spilling himself deep inside of him.  John was past caring now, about safety, anything, really.

He felt Sebastian pull out of him and John turned on his side, his broken hand already curled up to his chest and his eyes growing heavy.  He expected the men to drag him back to the usual cold room now that they were finished for the day, but they didn’t.  They all withdrew, Sebastian pulling back on his bloody clothes that he had discarded, while the other finished what they had started, masturbating while watching.  John hadn’t noticed, but their hands had left him sometime during the sex when they decided that touching themselves was more of an important matter to be taken care of.  They groaned and pumped themselves dry, spilling into their hands.

They reached forward, their hands covered in their own semen, and gave a low order for John to lick them clean.  He just wanted to sleep, but his jaw was wrenched open and sticky fingers were shoved inside.  Obediently now, he licked the cum off of the hand of one of the men and when he withdrew, the hand replaced with another, he licked that one clean as well until they were both satisfied with the job.  It was finally then that they left him alone, leaving him in that room.

Familiar darkness fell over him as they shut the door.  Slowly, he inched himself out of his own semen, wiping off the fluid that clung to his stomach.  He pulled on the blankets and sheets until he found a dry spot, then curled underneath them, feeling a bit warmer for once.  His whole body was sore from the rough treatment and leaving him in the room just meant that they didn’t want to bother moving him around anymore.  He wondered if torture was off the table now.  Or maybe Sebastian realized that this was the most horrific torture he could deal out.

John pulled the blankets tighter around him, reveling in the small warmth and comfort they had with them.  His head was flat on the bed, there were no pillows, but with his whole body sore and used to sleeping on the floor, this was like a luxury to him, like staying a night in a fancy hotel.  How far he had fallen over this time, how desperate and hopeless he was now.  John had already fully accepted the fact that he was going to die.  Now he only wished for the sweet mercy of death to take him, for Sebastian to realize that he was telling the truth, that he knew nothing, and flick out his knife, cleaning stabbing him in the heart.  But that wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

If Sherlock was still alive he would- no.  There was no point of thinking of what could have happened.  That was the past, this was the present.  No matter how deranged Sebastian was about the idea that somehow, somewhere, Sherlock was still walking around alive and free, without John tagging along at his heels, John would never believe it.  Sherlock had been his friend.  His best friend and he had been his in return.  He had watched him fall, heard him hit the pavement, and felt his still veins beneath his fingers.  Blood had been pooling on the sidewalk underneath his skull and his eyes had been open, glazed.  Steel blue with no life left in them, only nothingness.

Tears prickled at the back of his eyes, but he pushed them away.  He had already cried enough for his lost friend, and his tears had already been spent on the day’s events.  Any more spilling over his eyes would only help with his dehydration problem.  But maybe that was a good thing, killing himself off faster.  But he knew Sebastian would not have that.  He would get water in him in someway as soon as he saw John was too gone.  He wouldn’t want him dying on him all of a sudden.  John’s eyes finally fluttered closed as he chased away his rampant thoughts and he fell asleep on the bed, feeling like this would be the last soft thing beneath his form unless he was lying in his coffin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I was playing video games.
> 
> I beat four video games this week. There has to be an award for that, right? No? Okay.

He dreamt of Sherlock that night, his mind remembering all the cases they solved and all the ones they didn't.  Sherlock would frown and sulk for a day after he failed to complete a case to his satisfaction, but he would perk back up when Lestrade texted him with an address, practically hopping out of the flat, barely managing to slide on his coat by the time he flagged down a cab.  John would hobble after him like a faithful dog, and they would sit in mostly silence on their way to the crime scene, the only sound coming from Sherlock’s long fingers moving over his cellphone’s keyboard.

He was always so much happier when there was a case involved, a good murder to spark his interest, that there were sometimes days were John wondered if he even mattered to the man at all or if he was just a dog to him, always following behind a few feet, his leash short.  When he said that he had no friends, John had nearly broken, up and left right then; he was worthless, nothing to this man who he thought was magnificent, outstanding, the greatest man he had ever met in his entire life.  And he wasn’t even considered to be his friend.

“I don't have friends; I’ve just got one.”

His chest had clenched at the words, his heart beating faster and he had had to look away from the man to keep his emotions in check.  He had only offered a nod and a small ‘right’ in return, walking away from Sherlock, who had run after him, yelling compliments until John had politely told him to shut up.  But it had meant a lot to him, more than he realized it should have, to know that this man truly cared about him, that he considered him to be his only friend, the one that he could trust with his life.  But that had been a lie.  He hadn’t fully trusted John.

He had fallen.

Blood, crimson against his pale skin, his coat, which was usually so flared about him, full of its own life, clung to him, refusing to spread as it usually did.  Like the wings of an angel.  That was what Sherlock had been, but then his wings had been clipped and he had been left to fall.  John wondered if things would have ended differently if he had gotten back faster, if that fake phone call hadn’t made him racing off, if he had noticed how different Sherlock was acting.  Mrs. Hudson was like a mother to him, he would never had remained so calm and unattached to the news that she may have been dying.  He would have been spiting and raging, throwing bodies out of windows, striking fear into even John’s heart.  But John hadn’t noticed, hadn’t seen the signs, and he had left Sherlock on his own until he saw nowhere to go but down.

The guilt had eaten away at him until nothing but bones remained of the John he had been with Sherlock.  Now he felt like someone else entirely, as if he had been put in the wrong body, distant from his flesh.  He realized that Sherlock, despite his flaws, had made him whole.  But now that he could appreciate that, the man was cut from his life.  The times where they shared a smile, just stood next to each other, or sat in silence in their flat.  He would never get them back, but now he wished more than ever that he would have appreciated what he, they, had had when it was around.

There had been a case at in the past that Sherlock had not been able to figure out on his own.  That had resulting in him sulking for over a week until Lestrade finally brought them a case he found interesting.  The failed case had been an odd one, brought in by a client to their flat.  Upon their request that Sherlock figure out why his brother and his wife had killed themselves, or if it had been a murder suicide, Sherlock had refused.  The man had kept coming back, asking for him to please look into it, even just a little, while Sherlock pretended not to hear a word he was saying, lost in his own mind palace.  After the fifth visit, John bothered asking just why he refused to take this certain case and after he gave his usual reply that it was too boring, too normal, John had snapped and told him to take the damn case.  So he did.

They found themselves at the morgue, an hour after accepting the case, staring down at the two bodies pulled out in front of them, for Sherlock’s crystal eyes to pierce though everything about the dead couple.  He flicked out his small, compact magnifying glass, studying every particle that was left on them, which wasn’t much.  Sherlock was frowning during the entire study, upset that there wasn’t much left to deduce about the two with so little in front of him.  Sherlock stood up straight, tucking the magnifying glass away again before turning to stare down their client.

“Show me where they lived and I’ll be able to tell you more than what I already see,” Sherlock demanded, already walking toward the door, John a step behind.  The man followed after them mumbling something about how the police had already looked around, followed by another snap from Sherlock telling him that he wasn’t the police.  The ride to the place had been unbearably quiet, the only sounds coming from Sherlock’s phone.  When they arrived at the flat, the man barely had time to unlock the door with his key before Sherlock swept through as though he owned the place.

Even this place had almost been cleaned out, only the furniture and some odd objects remaining, though they were most likely not in their original positions.  Sherlock frowned at the site, grabbing a book from where it lay, flipping though the pages too quickly to read them before throwing it away in disgust.  He went to work digging though the other things, already forgetting that the other two of them were in the room, so lost in the mystery that seemed to be making him angry by the second.  He left the items, having looked at each one and sat down on the chair, his arms crossed instead of having his hands steepled in front of his face in his usual thinking position.

“They found nothing unusual in the wife’s bloodstream?  No poison, nothing?”

“No, nothing.  She was just dead.  Of natural causes, they said.”

“Young women don’t just drop dead!”  Sherlock stood up, pacing the room, “At least the husband had the decency to have a bullet hole in his head.”

John mumbled a quiet sorry to the man for Sherlock’s behavior, shuffling his feet against the carpet.  His eyes were drawn to the bloodstain, still not cleaned from the fibers.  He wandered over to the splatter on the wall, running his hands over the dots and streaks painting the wallpaper.  The man had been facing away from this wall when he had put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.  He had been down low, like he was sitting when he had done it.

“Was your brother holding his wife’s hand when they were found due to the gun shot noise?”  John asked and Sherlock spun to stare at him, his eyes wild.

“What does that have to-“ he started to ridicule him, but the man interrupted.

“Yes, they were.  What does that have to do with anything?”

“Yes, John, what does that have to do with anything?”

“It means he shot himself while holding her hand.  Most likely he got back home from work and found her, dead, on the floor.  Maybe from a rare stroke or heart attack, something they didn’t look for given the circumstances, as they only looked for traces of poisons and other toxins in her blood.  Upon finding his wife dead, he decided to take his own life instead of calling for the police.  Your brother couldn’t live without his wife, that’s how much he loved her.”

The man sat down in the chair, his head in his hands and John could hear him sniffling, “Are you sure?”

“I’m no expert, but I would have to say that, yes, that is what happened.”

“Preposterous,” Sherlock spit out, spinning to look at the blood splatter, “Why would someone throw away their whole life for something as trivial as love?  That makes no sense.  It’s illogical.”

“Only because you have no idea about love, Sherlock.  People take their lives all the time for the ones they love, like double suicides, jumping out of a burning building together, hand in hand.  It’s better to die with the one you love than live without them.”

Sherlock snorted, “It’s still ridiculous and stupid of them.  I would never do such a thing as to throw away what I have for the sake of someone else.”

“That’s because you’re almost a machine, an emotionless git,” John frowned and Sherlock moved closer, standing over the older man, their client already forgotten as he sat, sniveling in the chair.

“Then maybe you should help me learn how to love, John,” his voice was calm, steady, but John’s heart nearly leapt up into his throat at those words said in that baritone.

John turned away, gulping and trying to keep his cheeks from reddening, “That’s something you’ll have to learn on your own, Sherlock.  I can’t help you in that area, so just let me continue being the one with the gun, all right?”

Sherlock gave a sigh as though that was the most tedious thing and turned to bid goodbye to the client before brushing past John and out the open doorway.  John followed quickly behind, trotting down the stairs after the tall man.  Sherlock raised his hand for a cab and immediately one pulled over, as always.  John wasn’t sure how he managed it and how he could ride in them so nonchalantly after that incident when they had first met, which ended in him shooting a man for this stranger.  But he had immediately felt a bond with the man most had found annoying and hard to work with.  Sherlock was both those things, but he was also more than that.  He was brilliant, vibrant, alive.  He was everything that John had missed when he had been in Afghanistan and Sherlock had brought it all back in one package with a few extra goodies.

They had been quiet in the cab for a while before John spoke up, looking out the window at the buildings that passed, “Did you mean what you said back at the flat?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, John, I said a lot of things while we were at the flat.”

John wanted to tell him that most of the words had probably just been in his head, but he bit his lip to keep himself in check and turned to look at the man who was staring out his own window, “That you would never throw away your life for someone else?”

“Yes, I did.  I would never do something as stupid as that.”

“Not even for me?”

Sherlock was quiet for a while, his eyes remaining on the buildings while his fingers fidgeted over his phone, no texts to reply to at the moment.  His eyes look down at his hands, as though he realized what he was doing and he quickly pocketed the phone before bringing his eyes up to meet John’s staring past him, seemingly looking in to his mind and soul with his piercing gaze, but still he said nothing in return.

John sighed and looked back out his window, “I would,” he felt more than saw Sherlock flinch at the words, “I would give my life for yours.”

They were quiet for the rest of the ride back to Baker Street.

* * *

 

There were hands running lightly through his hair, nails scratching softly over his scalp and if he hadn’t already slept, he was certain the gentle touches would have put him under immediately.  He sighed, content, and arched his back like a cat, pressing up against the warmth as they brought their fingers down to curve them around his ear, fingernails still brushing through the short hairs.  His eyes fluttered open, but only saw black.  He reluctantly moved away from the warmth, turning to see who it was.  He saw the eyes first, like ice cutting through the inky darkness, then the soft smile, just barely pulling at the corner of one of their lips.  Shadows fell heavily, harshly on them, accenting their cheekbones.  John smiled at the figure above him, reaching up to brush his right thumb over those cheekbones.  His hand was unmarred, uninjured.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he murmured and other’s smile grew wider.

“Hello, John,” the man answered, leaning down to brush his lips over John’s forehead.

“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

“Quite,” another kiss.

“Damn, I was really hoping I wasn’t.”

“Well I’m afraid you are,” John sat up more and Sherlock immediately drew him to his chest, lips pressed against the top of his head, “I’m so sorry.”

“For what this time?”

“For dying,” hands scratched at his back, sending shivers of pleasure down his spine at the touch.

“I never told you a lot of things before you-“ he paused pushing back a bit to look up at Sherlock, “Well, you committed suicide.  I should have told you so many things.”

“Tell them to me now.”

“But you’re not here, you don’t exist.  You’re just a memory, a figment of my imagination.”

“You don't have to remember that.  Just remember when I was alive.  Remember me and tell me what you wanted to tell me.”

John leaned forward, pressing his lips to the underside of Sherlock’s jaw, teasing the skin with his teeth.  The result was stunning.  Sherlock tilted his head back and let out a groan, his hands tightening around John.  He smiled against his ivory skin, relaxing further into the warmth.  His hands traveled up, tangling themselves into Sherlock’s irresistible, dark, curly hair and tugged lightly on it.  Sherlock tipped his head back down, tucking his face into the crook of John’s neck, breathing in his scent.

“I thought you said you had things to tell me, John,” his voice was light, teasing and John let out a little laugh.

“Can’t I just stay here a little longer, pretend?”

“I’m afraid not, John.  You’ll have to wake eventually, whether you like to or not.”

“When I die, will I finally be reunited with you,” he pulled back and Sherlock looked down in amusement.  John rolled his eyes, “I meant with the real you, you git.”

“Of course you will, but you do realize you’re arguing with your mind right now, right?”  John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, soft and hesitant, just wanting to get a taste before he backed away, his fingers still in Sherlock’s hair.

“So, words… right,” he pecked Sherlock on the lips again, licking his own when he leaned back, savoring the taste of Sherlock on his mouth, trying to muster up the courage.  He knew that was ridiculous.  He knew this wasn’t Sherlock.

“You better hurry up, John,” Sherlock’s tone had changed, turned into a warning and the blackness around them had lightened to a dark grey, “You’re waking up.”

“I loved- love you, Sherlock,” His next kiss was more desperate, lips pressed tightly to Sherlock’s.  He tilted his head to get a better taste and felt their teeth clash.  Closer they pressed together, the kiss becoming more heated until John had to pull away for a breath, “You’re the most beautiful, wonderful man who’s a pain in my arse.”

Sherlock smirked and John immediately punched him in the arm, “Not like that, you git!”

“Oh, but I do believe you meant it like that.  Why else would you have said it?”  This time it was Sherlock who started the kiss, leaning in to recapture John’s mouth with his.

When John had to push away from Sherlock, the area around them was a lighter grey now.  His face was wet, “I don’t want to go.”

“I know,” another kiss.

“I don’t want to leave you.  I don’t want you to leave me ever again,’ John’s whole body was shaking with sobs, tears streaming down his face.  Sherlock kissed his eyes, “If I could have you back, I would never let you go.  I wouldn’t even care if we just remained friends.  I know you would never actually feel for me this way.  You’re married to your work after all,’ He ran a hand over his eyes, wiping away the tears, but they just kept coming.

Sherlock offered no words this time, not even a kiss, just stared down at him, his eyes so sad.

“When I wake up, you’ll be gone, you’ll be dead again, and I’ll be back there with those men,” his body shook with a particularly savage sob, “I’d rather die than go back there.  I’d rather die.”

“Sherlock wouldn’t approve of such behavior, John.  He would want you to live as long as you can, live a full life.”

“I have!  I have lived a full life!”

“No you haven’t,” Sherlock was gone now, leaving John alone in the lightening world, “You haven’t truly lived after he died.  Survive this and live.”

“Survive this?  Easy for you to say.  You’re just a figment of my imagination, you’re part of my brain.  You of all things should know I’m not going to make it out of this.  Once they tire of me, they’ll shoot me in the head or stab me in the heart, maybe draw it out a bit longer than that.  Either way I’m a dead man and you know it.”

Only silence met his words and he looked around in hopes that Sherlock was still standing someone next to him, but there was nothing there, only the grey that was quickly becoming white.

“Don’t leave me, Sherlock,” he quaked, trying one last time and this time a voice answered him.

“Time to wake up Johnny-boy.”

His eyes snapped open, wet.  He had been crying in his sleep.  A face filled his vision, but there was no compassion in the eyes, no porcelain skin, nothing of kindness looked at him.

Sebastian grinned, his white teeth filling John’s vision, “Welcome back, Johnny-boy.  Ready for another day?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I've just been busy. I spent the last week shopping for my Halloween outfit: the Eleventh Doctor. I also got an idea for a Sherlock/Doctor Who crossover (with Johnlock smut) so if you're interested, keep an eye out for that.
> 
> Warning: This chapter is basically just John being raped and molested. You knew what you were getting into when you started this fanfiction, but I feel as though I should still warn you.

They dragged him back out to the chair in the other room and wrapped a blindfold over his eyes.  The chair was cold against his bare skin, but he only shivered once, when he first sat down.  Someone edged his knees apart, exposing him to the air.  That was the only warning he got before slicked fingers were pushing at his entrance, breaching him before he could try to stop it.  They started with two this time, not even bothering to be gentle, thrusting their fingers into him as though it was a cock, ruthless and hard.  The fingernails would scrape against his every few times and John would wince at their touch.  Just by this alone told John that Sebastian wasn’t the one inside of him this time.  They were switching off.

Their head was placed against his inner thigh and their irregular breathing told him they were wanking themselves off, preparing themselves.  The removal of their head from his leg was the only warning he had before he felt him press slowly into him.  There was a loud guttural groan from the man as they sank into him, only coming to a stop when he had fully sunk into him.  John squirmed, trying to get away.  They were longer and thicker than Sebastian and stretched him to the point of pain.  They hadn’t prepared him enough.  He bit his lower lip, trying not to cry as the man began to move, thrusting into him with enthusiasm, no rhythm to their movements that John could move to get used to it.  It was all just pain.

“Oh, god, he’s so fucking tight,” the man groaned.  David.  John could recognize the voice even between the gasps, “Gonna have to loosen you up a bit so we can- fuuuu shit- both stick ya.”

John felt as though his heart stopped at the thought of two of him in him at the same time.  He let out a sob.  The sound spurred on David, who leaned forward more, lifting John up higher, his arse now in the air as he tried to hold onto the chair with his one good hand.  David bent over him, pushing John’s legs back, into his chest.  He really wasn’t in shape to be in this pose and all it did was add to the pain.  As if it wasn’t enough already, David leaned even further, biting down harshly onto the thick muscle in the crook of his neck.  Warm blood dripped from the wound and John let out a cry of pain.  Driven by the taste of blood, David started to thrust in more viciously, as if he was an animal, possessed by lust.  With a particularly cruel thrust, David finally came, groaning into John’s neck.  He could feel the vibrations of the noise through his entire body.

When David pulled out, he did so roughly once more, pulling back and out as though he had never been there before, leaving John with his whole body aching.  His legs flopped back down and he slid out of the seat, harshly landing on the ground.  He wished he had managed to hold onto the chair and stay seated, but it was too late.  Metal cuffs clinked over his wrists, the other halves of them attaching him to the chair.  More hands, Mikey now, roamed over his body, caressing his jawbone before running down his neck and tracing down his chest.  When the fingers reached Johns groin, the wrapped around his flaccid cock and began to stroke him, long deep strokes, twisting their hand as they neared the head.  John squirmed beneath his touch, getting hard like he had the day before, against his will.

When he felt like he was going to come, he bit back a groan and immediately the hand was gone.  He had to swallow the whine that came from the loss of contact.  His body was betraying him.  He didn’t want this, but his cock strained to be wanked more until it spilled.  Hands lifted his arse gently off the ground seating him in Mikey’s lap.  He was being almost gentle with him, like he was afraid he would break, which was highly probable after David’s treatment of him.  Mikey pressed into him slowly, grunting as the heat enveloped his cock.  John hissed in pain at the intrusion.  The man kissed him on the neck almost apologetically.  But then he began to thrust and John let out a cry of pain.

A hand gripped harshly onto John’s hair, “Open your mouth for me, Johnny boy.  Open up all pretty for the both of us.”

John was sobbing quietly now, but did as he was asked, opening his mouth and waited for the intrusion.  It came quickly, harshly thrust into his open mouth.  Sebastian wasn’t going to draw it out, giving quick and shallow thrust into John, fucking his mouth.  His thrust got quicker and deeper as time wore on, to the point of choking John with each movement in.  Mikey in his arse was all but forgotten as his body fought for his need to breath.  There were both moving quicker now, their gasps and groans becoming sharper.  John, himself, was almost flaccid again until Mikey grabbed his length in his hand once more and started wanking him off again in time with his own thrust.

“Oh, god, Johnny boy,” Sebastian groaned. “Your mouth is so- hnnng- fucking good.  I would fuck your pretty– fuuuck- mouth all goddamn day if I could   It’s so warm and inviting, inviting my cock right in,” he accented his words with harsh thrust of his hips, though thankfully being wary of John’s broken nose.  They were getting close now, he could tell by the clenching of their muscles and the way they were starting to lose control of their movements, shuddering into him.  The hand was still working on his cock, applying the right amount of pressure and twisting his hands just right that-

“Come, pet,” Mikey’s voice was the only thing John heard before his body arched, spurting himself all over his stomach, a scream muffled in his throat.  The vibrations of his scream tipped Sebastian over the edge and with one more deep thrust, pulling John’s face flush with his groin, he groaned, spilling himself.  He continued giving miniscule thrusts into John’s mouth as he came, letting John milk him.  Mikey gave a few more thrust, these harder than the others and then with a noise that sounded like a growl, he clenched down onto John’s hips, fingernails digging into the skin and cuts already there and came deep inside of him.  John could feel the warmth of it spread through him.  Sebastian pulled out, letting John sputter and cough at the welcome air and Mikey at least had the decency to wait until he was softer before pulling out himself.  John was just glad he didn’t throw up this time as he swallowed the liquid in his throat.

The handcuff were removed and the blindfold stripped away and he blinked at the sudden light, however dim it was.  Sebastian was crouched down in front of him, having already tucked himself away and not even out of breath.  He looked like nothing had even happened just half a minute before.  He didn’t speak at first, just looked at John with what almost looked like admiration.  His fingers held out, tracing over the cuts and words etched permanently into John’s skin, a small smile on his lips as he looked over what he had done to the man, making him his both physically and mentally.  He would press against the scabs and wounds, looking at John’s face for any flicker of pain.  John didn’t give him any.  Sebastian just smiled wider.  He moved his hand back up, tracing his fingers lightly over the word above John’s collarbones, his favorite words, it seemed, before digging in greedily.

The wound reopened and began to bleed, “You don’t know what any of these say, do you?”  John didn’t answer.  Sebastian already knew the answer, “You don’t bother looking over them, don’t want to know what they say.  But this one, this one right here,” he applied more pressure and finally John squirmed.  His hand was too close to the scar on his shoulder for comfort, “Right before I kill ya, I’m gonna make you read these words.  I’m gonna make you say them out loud so that they’re the last thing you think of, it’ll be etched into your soul.  The words will be the last thing you say, the last words you speak and those words will be heard by everyone.  By you, by me, by him.”

John didn’t question who ‘him’ was.  He already knew.  Sherlock.  The man was still deranged and pattering on about Sherlock being alive.  John cast his gaze away from the man before shutting his eyes.  He already missed the blindfold.  At least then he didn’t have to see their faces, the expressions on their lips and eyes.  Sebastian’s face was constantly twisted into a cruel smile, while the others would leer at him from behind the man.  John could tell they were already ready for another go.  John felt like he could die from exhaustion if they tried, his mouth was so dry.  His entire body was dry.

He opened his eyes again and his vision was filled with Sebastian.  Flinched away, he slammed his head against the chair, only to feel Sebastian’s fingers tangle into his oily locks and grip tightly.  He pulled John back toward him, their chests pressed against each other and then his mouth was smothered.  Sebastian licked and nipped at John’s lips, leaving them raw and bleeding.  There was no kindness in the touch of lips, only lust and the need to harm.  As his mouth was ravaging John’s, his hands explored again, running over his ‘work of art’ etched into John’s body, running his thumbs over John’s nipples before brushing down, rubbing over John’s limb cock.  John whimpered in pain as his fingers tugged at it, oversensitive as it was.  The pain only seemed to drive Sebastian even more.  He gave once more harsh bite, bringing blood, before he backed away to see what he was doing.

“You truly believe your dear Sherlock to be dead, don’t you?’  He murmured, his other hand reaching down further to circle John’s entrance.

“Of course I do.  I watched him fall, I felt no pulse.  There’s no other explanation other than he’s dead and not coming back.  So just kill me already and- ah!”  He arched his back in pain as Sebastian fisted his cock roughly while slamming two of his fingers into John.  He swirled them around in John, not caring when his fingernails scraped along the inside walls.

“We’re not killing you yet.  We’re simply waiting for the right moment.  You may not be able to lead us to him, but you’ll do just fine as bait,” he shoved in a third finger and John whimpered, throwing his head back.  Then warmth enveloped his cock and he looked down in astonishment to see Sebastian sucking him off, his mouth working quickly and efficiently to bring John to an aroused state again, despite John’s attempt to control himself, remain limp.  But the man’s mouth was moving so expertly on the penis that in no time, John found himself painfully erect again, Sebastian still sucking him off, thrusting his three fingers in and out of John’s tight hole.

His tongue was working around the head, pressing against the glands just right that spirals of pleasure ripped through John’s body with every swipe of his tongue.  When he was done teasing, he moved deeper, giving just the right amount of suction down his length, teeth scraping lightly against it, his tongue pressing along the underside of the cock.  John whined, shut his eyes, and arched his back.  Immediately another pair hands were on him, petting his hair and stroking down his chest in an almost comforting matter.  He slid his eyes open and saw Mikey kneeling next to him, his eyes looking at John as though he was a possession.  Seeing John look at him, he smirked, leaning forward to catch the lobe of John’s nearest ear in his mouth and giving it a bite, not drawing blood.

“I’ve got a little present for you.  I’ll give it to you tonight,” he groaned into Johns ear and rubbed up against him, his cock hard against John’s side.  John was sure that what ever ‘present’ it was, it involved sex and it made him even more sick to his stomach.  He grabbed John’s closest hand, his left, unbroken hand, and made it wrap around his cock.  It was nauseously warm to the touch and John could feel the throb of his heart through the vein on the underside of the erect prick.  Mikey moved his hand up and down, making John wank him, only pulling his hand away once he was sure John wouldn’t stop with the movement, keeping the right amount of pressure on it.  He began rutting shamelessly into John’s hand, making him move faster.

David moved to the other side and grabbed John’s head, twisting his face toward him.  Mikey gave a whine of anger when the earlobe he had still been nipping at was moved away.  He soon forgot about it though as John’s smooth expanse of skin on his neck was exposed to his mouth and soon he had moved on, sucking and biting on the pure skin in front of him.  David gripped John’s jaw, wrenching his mouth open and immediately he tightened in horror, remembering how rough he had been and, now, with his broken nose, he was sure to be in for even more pain than before.

The tightening got Sebastian’s attention, however, and he removed his mouth just long enough to hiss up at David, “Don’t break him, David.  Watch the nose.  We don’t want you killing him in your excitement, not yet at least,” he gave a predator grin up at John, who paled further at the glance.

But when David finally did thrust into John’s mouth, he was just as malevolent as he had been before, only taking a slight care to not slam into his nose.  Otherwise, he rode John’s mouth, skin slapping with every move and the tip of his cock hitting the back of John’s throat every time.  John felt tears running down his face.  He wasn’t even sure when they had started falling.  Three fingers were still being thrust into him while the tongue worked on his cock.  His unbroken hand still worked on Mikey while he leaned over John, nipping and licking every inch of skin he could, whispering things like _mine_ and _pet_ before biting on the skin below his mouth, sucking at it to bruise it or lick off the blood.

Four fingers were suddenly shoved into him, swirling inside of him and he let out a shriek of pain, arching his back.  David took the cry as a chance to thrust harder, slamming himself into John’s throat, making him raw.  John choked on the cock and Mikey’s hand was back on his, making him work on him harder now.  Pain turned them on.  John supposed he really should have know that by now.  He felt Sebastian’s thumb nudge at his entrance and- oh God.  He tightened around the fingers inside of him, trying to stop what he knew was inevitable.  Sebastian would have his way with John.  He always did.  One way or another, he would spread John wide.

He licked the length of John’s entire shaft and that was just enough to get the doctor to shudder, loosening just a bit that Sebastian could ram his thumb in to join his fingers.  John shuddered and cried, bucking to try to move away from the painful, stretching intrusion.  Sebastian just twisted his hand, moving it in further, over the thicker part of his hand and John screamed as he slid all the way in, his hand burrowed inside of him.  He could feel the fingers petting him on the inside and he would have thrown up if something hadn’t already been shoved down his throat, currently cutting off his air as David gave quick shallow thrusts into him.

Suddenly Mikey’s movements of John’s hand became erratic before his body stiffened, pressing against John’s warmth as he spilled over their hands.  David came next, pushing himself as far as he could into John’s throat and letting out a growl as his cum spurted into John’s throat.  John felt like he was going to pass out, his vision spotting and his stomach lurching at every shudder into his throat and movement of the hand in his arse.  The fingers in him curled into a fist and then the thrusting started.  Large and obtrusive.  Pain.  His eyes rolled up, his breathing coming short as David pulled out and he tried to swallow, his throat sticky and full.

“Look at you, Johnny-boy,” Sebastian nearly purred, “All stretched open for us.   David was right.  You’re going to look so fucking gorgeous with both of them in ya.  You can take them both easily.”

The thrusting came more erratic and the other hand that had been working on John’s cock, keeping it somewhat erect, finally left.  Immediately his cock deflated, flopping limp back onto his stomach.  Sebastian was rocking now, wanking himself as he fucked John unconscious with just his fist, pushing deep inside the now silent, taking man.  John’s eyes fluttered closed as the movements became more erratic and then he felt warmth seep over his chest and stomach, pooling into dip his body made in this bent position.

“So good, Johnny-boy.  So fucking good,” Sebastian’s voice was breathy, coming down from his high, and the fist uncurled in him, fingers back to fluttering against the walls.

“Suck a good little pet,” he heard Mikey whisper, nudging his nose against John’s still exposed neck.

Slowly, achingly slowly, Sebastian pulled out, leaving him raw and open.  It came out with a moist popping noise that had John grunting, his entire head lolling back, wondering exactly how many more days he had left before they took pity on him and killed him where he sat, spread open under them.  He hoped it was soon.  He couldn’t take much longer of this or he would snap, crumble beneath their fingers and lips.  Afghanistan had been nothing like this.  That had been fire and war.  This was ice and vengeance.  It was shutting him down.

There was breath on his lips now and a tongue pushed between them, finding no resistance.  It all tasted like bubblegum.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I don't know what happened. I just typed. I honestly didn't expect to get this out so quickly.
> 
> Anyway, John's time with Sebastian is rolling to an end. Just a few more chapters with him until... whatever. You'll have to see.

It was soft and warm and he thought for a second that if he opened his eyes, Sherlock would be back again.  He was comfortable.  Too comfortable.  It was like his body wasn’t even injured in the slightest.  He wanted to open his eyes and find himself back in 221B, curled up in his bed after a good night not plagued by nightmares about the war.  But then his hand began to ache again, the wound in his palm itching.  He had tucked it up against his body instinctively and now his fingers ached, twisted and broken.  He stretched his arm back out, away from him, his eyes still closed.  He was back in the bed.  He didn’t even have to be Sherlock to know that, the sheets and blankets almost tucked around him snugly.  They were clean, smelling of detergent.

The bed dipped behind him as someone sat down and he felt hands running down his back through the covers.  Softly, gently.  Almost like Sherlock’s hand had been running through his hair.  But he knew it wasn’t him.  Wasn’t even a dream or hallucination Sherlock.  The fingers were all wrong, too short and stub.  Nothing like Sherlock’s long, lean fingers, rough on the fingertips from the violin.  These ones were just rough all over, catching on the cotton.  John took in a shuddering breath, not wanting to open his eyes, come back and face reality.  He liked it better when he had the chance where it was all just a dream.  Now that was gone.

The fingers moved up, peeling the blankets off John, leaving him to shiver, bare, in the invading air.  Now the fingers ran down his back, running over the bumps and cuts in his skin, catching on the scabs.  They moved back up, stopping on the back of John’s neck, just waiting there, pressing lightly into the skin.  They finally moved around, inching to the front of his throat to press lightly against the front of his neck, squeezing, but not hard enough to stop his flow of oxygen.  Instead, it was like he was slightly massaging him, just on the edge of squeezing the life out of him.  He could have, too, if he wanted to.  But even John knew that was against the rules.  No one would kill him, not even out of pity.

“I know you’re awake, John,” a soft kiss to the ear accompanied Mikey’s husky voice.  John had forgotten that he had said he had a ‘present’ for John that he would receive later.  He just didn’t want to open his eyes.  Mikey didn’t seem to care about that for now, getting up to straddle John’s side, his groin pressed against his ribs.  He was obviously aroused and he rubbed against John’s side just to make sure he knew.  His hands were back at his throat, rubbing over the skin, tracing the bones underneath that would have been so easy to snap with a twist of his hands.  John knew.  He had thought about snapping his neck on something a few times.  It would be so easy and, if correctly done, painless and quick.

“Yes, I think it’ll fit,” Mikey’s cooed, his fingers circling John’s neck before pulling away again.  There was the sound of metal clinking and John tensed, expecting it to be some torture device strapped to his neck.  The sounds, though, seemed like those of the dog tags he had in the military.  The clinking was by his throat now and he felt something wrap around his neck, clicking shut.  Cool metal rested on his throat and he felt Mikey giggle over him, his breath coming down to blow at whatever had been put on him, fingers wriggling under- a collar.  John knew what it was now without uncertainty.  He had just been collared like a dog.  He still didn’t open his eyes, didn’t want to look down at the thing to see what it said.  He would treat it like a cut on his body, not to be looked at, not to be read.

Mikey rubbed against him more, pressing into the wounds and only then did John offer a whimper of pain in return.  He was leaning back down over him now, licking his ear, his cheek, his jaw, his neck.  Any part of John’s body turned toward him that he could tongue and mouth and teeth.  Hard and sharp sometimes before he went back to soft and nurturing, like a mother cat caring for her kittens.  John’s nausea was back and he felt his body shudder, cold sweat on his forehead.  Mikey licked it off and then his warmth was gone, moving away, off of the bed.  There was the rustling of clothes and then he was back, throwing the blankets off completely and lying behind John, spooning up against him, his cock poking John in the back.

“Such a good little pet,” another nudge from his nose, “So good and calm.  Doesn’t even bite back.   Good boy.  I’ll almost feel bad when we have to put you down,” he rolled away, onto his back.

“Sit up,” his cooing voice was gone, replaced by a commanding one, like he was telling a dog tricks.  John finally opened his eyes and did as he was told, never looking at the collar or Mikey, “Now straddle me, Pet.”

John bit his bottom lip, but he turned and did as he was told, his body shaking, his fear and queasiness clearly visible as he settled over the man, still choosing to stare at the wall at the head of the bed rather than Mikey lying below him.  Mikey arched rubbing himself against John, his hands coming up to grip him harshly by the hips as he rolled up against him, thrusting his hips as he slid over John’s skin and entrance with his cock.  Finally he rested again, his breathing low and needy.

“Prepare yourself.  Stick your fingers up your hole.”

Now John looked at him, eyes wild.  When John made no move to do as he was told, Mikey grabbed his left hand, sucking the digits into his moist mouth, tongue curling between them.  Once they were covered in saliva, Mikey released them with a wet pop, moving the hand back around John and leaving them there for John to finish the job.  John moved uncomfortably, shifting his weight as Mikey’s penis still pressed up against him, and he leaned forward a bit to get a better angle.  He just felt at first, tracing his saliva covered fingers over his puckering hole.  His whole body was still aching from the brutal treatment from that morning and he felt a deep ache that radiated through his body from the fisting, Mikey gave a vicious thrust, his face contorting in anger and finally John complied.

The first finger slid in easily, his hole still stretched far beyond what it normally was, still loose.  And a second finger slid home right alongside the first.  He pressed back against them, getting them in as far as he could.

“Now spread yourself.”

John did as he was told, spreading himself with his two fingers, working away the small amount of tension.  When Mikey told him to add another finger he did so, like a trained dog, spreading himself wide on his own fingers, thrusting them in just right.  His index finger brushed over his prostrate and he couldn’t stop the whine that escaped from his throat.  He was leaning closer to Mikey now, the man’s hard cock trapped beneath them.  John’s penis was still mostly soft, much to his relief as he added yet another finger to his growing hole.  He thrust back onto them and hit his prostrate again, this time pleasure curled in his stomach and spread through his body, almost warm like the sun.

Mikey abruptly wrenched John’s hand away from himself and he almost whined at the loss, sick to his stomach as he was, until he felt Mikey line himself up, the head of his prick pushing up against John’s stretched arsehole.  But he didn’t push in, just sat there, pressed up against the waiting hole.  John growled, just wanting to get this over with, spread himself wide, get fucked, and then get some more sleep or food.  He liked it better when he was asleep, more chances of seeing Sherlock that way.

So when Mikey didn’t push up, John pushed down.  Mikey’s face split in a grin, telling John that that was exactly what he had wanted from the beginning.  This was all about John doing it himself.  Preparing himself, fucking himself.  He took it slowly, sinking down on the erect penis until he bottomed out, his back straight again and his head thrown back.  His left hand was splayed, open, across Mikey’s chest, a finger pressing down on one of his nipples.  John wondered what would happened if he bit it off.  Hell, what would happen if he bit down on the man’s neck, tearing away at his jugular vein and carotid artery, tearing away the flesh and muscle until nothing remained but jagged strips of life and bone.

Nothing would happen.  Well, to me more exact, there would be a lot of screaming and blood.  Mikey would be dead, but the others would be so alive and not quite as forgiving as the dead man beneath him.  Maybe they would kill him, seeing him covered in their friends blood, decide that it wasn’t worth it to keep them for their so called bait.  Stab him, hang him, torture him, shoot him.  Whatever way they wanted to kill him, he would gladly accept.

He was jarred out of his thoughts by an impatient thrust from Mikey, who was growling underneath John.  He had to blink a few times to get rid of the image of the man chewed open beneath him.  Rising with one hand, his arm almost gave out under him, shaking at the strain.  He really hadn’t eaten much at this place and what he had usually was drugged or promptly thrown up not hours later.  His body was a shell of what it once was back at 221B, and merely a skeleton of what he had been during his time in Afghanistan.

So he did as he was told, he rode Mikey, following his instructions as best he could with one hand.  If he was told to move faster, he did.  Slower, he slowed down, rolling his hips and biting his bottom lip.  His face was wet again.  He never really knew when he started crying anymore and he was surprised he had any tears left to shed.  His left arm was getting weaker now, and John didn’t know how much longer he could last.  As though Mikey knew what John was thinking, either because of the strained look on his face or the shaking of his arm, he reached up, firmly grasping John’s arse in his hands.

“My turn,” Mikey barked, giving a fierce thrust up into the warmth.  Finally, John dropped, his body going limp, and his face tucked in the man’s neck as Mikey slammed up into him repeatedly, jarring his whole body with each thrust.  His breathing was becoming ragged and John closed his eyes, moving his head to keep his nose away from any contact with the man or the bed.  Mikey’s hips where churning beneath him, lifting off of the bed in order to dive as deeply as he could into John’s body.  John could tell when he was on the edge, the man’s grunts gaining an airy sound to them, accompanied with whines and murmurs about how great John felt, how good of a pet he was.  And John just took it.

With a growl, Mikey, with his back arched, grabbed tighter onto John, pulling him down flush against him and released into him, his mouth biting and licking at the skin near him, anything he could taste.  John rode out the waves, clenching his thighs around Mikey.  The man beneath him finally collapsed, panting underneath him, his chest rising and falling.  They both tried to catch their breath again, but Mikey was the first one to regain normal breathing.  He turned, slipping out of John at the movement, and made John tumble onto his side, rolling him so his back was to Mikey’s chest, spooning up against him again.

Mikey kissed John on the back of the neck as the smaller man felt himself slipping from reality again, his eyes staring blankly at the wall while the tears continued to fall.  He closed them, finally, trying to drift away from this world, find a better one for himself.  Mikey shuffled closer, nosing at the collar with a proud smile, a hand coming up to trace over the smooth silver tags and the words carved into it, much like the words that were carved into John himself.  It was just another way to claim him, make him less than human.  It was working.  He tasted bile in his throat.

“Such a good little pet.”

* * *

“Am I just a pet to you?”

John’s voice shattered the building quiet that had been slowly taking over the room, the rain pattering on the windows doing nothing to smooth it back down.  Sherlock actually bothered looking up from his experiment to stare at him with a bewildered look.

“Did you really let Moriarty’s words get to you at the pool?”

“No, I just-“ John shuffled awkwardly where he stood, wishing he had chosen to stay in his seat and read the morning newspaper instead, “I’ve just been thinking-“

“Please don’t.”

John frowned at the man, but continued, “I am like a faithful dog to you.  I bloody shot a man for you without even knowing anything about you other than your name and that you’re a downright prick.  And then I follow you from case to case, really offering nothing to help, just following.  Like a pet, a dog, and I was just-“

“John,” the baritone voice stopped his stammering and he glanced up at the man.  The bewildered look was gone, replaced with the smallest of frowns, the dip of his lips pulling harshly at his face, usually smooth, bright, and beautiful like untouched ivory.

“If you think you’re a pet, then you are.  But just know that that’s only because you think so.”

“What do you say, then?  What do you think?”

“Do I honestly have to say it, John?  Can’t you use your brain to figure it out?  I know it’s less active than mine, but even you should be able to figure this out.”

It was silent before John broke it again, “I give you everything without consideration for my own safety, or for what I want.  I really am just like a dog.  No wonder Moriarty called me your pet.  I wonder if the police talk about me like that” he frowned, biting his lips and averting his eyes.

“They do little else, John,” Sherlock repeated his words from the night of incident at the pool, “I don’t know why you let it bother you enough to change yourself.  Quite a risible line of thought, really.”

He stood up and John glanced back at his newspaper in earnest, wishing he could rewind the past few minutes.  Sherlock drew close to the shorter man, his regard for personal space showing, which was none.

“John, look at me,” he did, “You are not my pet or anything like that.  You are an invaluable person at crime scenes and during chases.  You help make it less boring and raise the IQ of the room.  You tell me when a person has died just by looking at their body, you tell me when I’m being too much of a prick and when to back off, much to my dislike, but I suppose it’s for the better.  You help me with chases, always there at my side in the end, out of breath and leaning over, but smiling with me all the same.  You’ve saved my life multiple times on many occasions and without you I would be six feet under.  I cannot say it enough, John Watson.  You are not a pet to me.”

“What am I to you, then?”

Sherlock placed a hand on the man’s shoulder in a rare display of kindness and bent down to look the man seriously in the eye, “You are my blogger, you are my doctor, and I’d be lost without you.”

John cried upstairs in his bed that night, trying to muffle his tears with his arm and pillow.  But he knew Sherlock would know what had happened.  Sherlock always knew what John had happened, every second of every day, and he always felt the urge to let John know that, too.  But he didn’t mention it this time, just waited patiently on the couch when John came down to make him a cup of tea, giving him a nod of appreciation when it was placed down in front of him.  He knew exactly what had happened to John, but for once Sherlock stayed quiet and let them savor the silence, sitting next to each other in the comfort of their flat.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally we have arrived at this chapter.

Mikey was gone when John woke up and, for once, he was grateful for the missing warmth.  He dozed in and out for the next few hours, waking up more only when they placed food next to his head.  At one point, he may have eaten it like a starving dog.  Now he ate it slowly, lethargically.  Any other way and his stomach would have revolted against him, spilling what little it had in it.  So he ate it like he all the time in the world, chewing slowly on the stale bread, moistening it in his mouth before chewing it down when he knew he could handle it.

He treated his glass of water, flecks of rust and all, as though it would break at the slightest touch, reaching for it with care and drinking it with even more.  When he was done, he was still far from content and set to work picking up every crumb left as though that would make a difference, only stopping when he couldn’t pick out anything else on the tray.  He turned his back to the glass and tray and tried to drift off again.  But he could hear them moving around in the other room, their voices muffled through the door.  Closing his eyes, he tried to pretend they didn’t exist.  His pretend world didn’t last for long, the door opened, light pouring in.

It was Sebastian who stood over him.  John could tell just by the fingertips tracing over his jawbone, which tightened unconsciously under the feather light touch.  He waited for the man to roughly grab him, but no violence came.  The man leaned down, pressing a kiss onto John’s exposed ear before turning John’s head so they were facing each other.  With the movement, John let his eyes flutter open to stare up at the man above him.  Immediately he wished he hadn’t.  While the man’s actions weren’t harsh, his eyes glinted in the sliver of light coming in, full of insanity and unbridled glee.  Something was different, but John wasn’t kept in the loop.

Sebastian smirked, capturing John’s chin between his fingers and thumb, leaning down to kiss him, “I’ll be leaving you to David and Mikey today.  I’ve got things to do, people to see,” he whispered against John’s lips and he could feel his smile widen when he said ‘people.’

“I’m sure David will want to break you, but Mikey will keep him in check, make sure he’s playing nice with his pet,” he patted John on the side of the head and he hoped that this was it, that the man will leave after this.  But Sebastian stayed.  He climbed onto the bed, straddling John, who immediately shifted against his better judgment to accommodate the man.  Sebastian smiled as his movement, giving him soft murmurs of praise for doing so.  He leaned down, recapturing John’s lips with is teeth, biting and sucking.

He prodded at the gap between John’s lips and John opened for him, letting the man’s tongue intrude into his mouth, pushing and sliding along his own tongue and his teeth and the roof of his mouth.  Any other kiss and the graze of a tongue along the roof of John’s mouth would have sent a quiver down his spine and made his knees give out under him.  Now it just felt wrong, made him want to recoil from the touch, the taste of Sebastian in his mouth, overwhelming bubblegum.  He was the only one who got to kiss John.  The other two didn’t get that privilege.  John may be shared, but he was truly just Sebastian’s.  He was no one else’s, no matter what they thought.  That’s what every kiss said, every touch from the man.  It disgusted him.

“I would have you take care of me, but as I said, I have things to do.  Such a shame, really, to have to waste such a pretty mouth at a time like this,” he moved off John, much to his relief and moved to the door, “They’ll be in here in less than an hour.  Hope you three have fun.  I know they will.”

John could hear the smile in the man’s voice without looking at him and bit down the bile that rose in his throat.  He got another kiss, this one complete with another bite before the man rose and left   John whimpered once the man was gone, trying to find a comfortable place to rest for the wait, but he was no longer tired, fear coursing through his veins.  It seemed he could only find sleep when his body was exhausted or if he had passed out.  His whole body constantly felt like it was on fire and it was only through sleep that he found relief.  He bit his bottom lip and shut his eyes.  His lips tasted like bubblegum, but he didn’t have the strength to spit away the flavor.

The two came in much sooner than an hour, probably waiting for Sebastian to leave before they made their move.  John figured they had just waited until they were sure their boss wasn’t coming back before the came in.  He heard Mikey chuckle, tugging at the collar stop around his neck.  John kept his eyes closed until he felt hands on his thighs apart, roughly exposing him to the chilly air.  He looked down in time to see David lean down, mouth nudging at his entrance.  Mikey was at his neck, nipping and lipping around the collar, once taking the metal tag.  John could practically see him run his tongue over the lets he could see engraved in the circular piece of metal.

Then David’s tongue was thrust into him, twisting and searching.  Against his will, John spread further, almost inviting the intruding muscle into his arse.  David thrust in earnest, his tongue delving further into him.  He pressed his lips up against the entrance, allowing his tongue to get in even more.  John’s was gasping now, pressing back at the tongue.  He twisted his head to the side and whined, low and needy.  God he hated himself right now, spread out in front of these two men as they molested him, a tongue in his arse and teeth at his throat.  And he was enjoying it to a level.  He was crying again.  He never knew where he got the moisture for his silent tears, but the sprung up all the same.

Mikey moved off him as David pulled away.  They started taking off their clothes, their cocks already fully erect, an angry red color as they jutted out from their bodies eagerly.  He was hoisted up so he was straddling David’s legs and before he could prepare himself, he felt the man line up, obviously thinking the saliva and tongue would have been enough.  John knew better.  He bit back a cry of pain as David pushed in, thrusting into him.  John felt himself stretch, pain rippling through his body as David pushed him down until he was fully seated.  There was not further wait after that, the man thrusting up into John, grunting in pleasure at every movement.  John moved his hands over the man’s shoulder, keeping his injured one away from them, his other hand twisting down to claw at David’s back.

There was a tongue licking at the rim of his stretched out hole, catching every movement until the warm breath and moisture left.  A finger pressed against his hole and slowly pressed in.  John tried to moved away, but David gripped tightly to his sore and cut hips, pressing him back down onto the intruding member and finger.  They continued to thrust into him and one finger was swiftly made into two, pulling and scissoring at the entrance.  It was so deathly quiet in the room except for the grunting and groans.  The lack of words, praise or otherwise was almost more terrifying than the act itself.

Two fingers became three, which quickly became four.  All John felt was pain now, fire lacing through his body, his tears still falling quietly.  They were still thrusting into him with earnest, David seemed to still be completely at ease, not likely to come any time soon.  He wasn’t thrusting nearly fast enough as he had the last time.  The fingers pulled and tugged at his rim, stretching him even further and John wondered if this would finally be the point where he broke.  Sebastian always told them not to break them, but he wondered if this time they would actually manage to do just that.  Then the fingers left and he knew what was coming, closing his eyes and letting out a shuddering breath.  Even David slowed to an almost stop, still giving small thrusts into him, in anticipation.

Even though he knew it was coming, he still wasn’t ready when the heavy head pressed against his already stretched to capacity arse.  And when he pushed the head of his cock inside, heavy and hard, John saw stars.  His vision dimmed before completely going black and he felt himself slump forward, as if he couldn’t keep his body straight anymore, didn’t want to.  He felt like he was dying inside as both man came to a rest inside his body before they began to move, separate from each other, at their own pace.  David was quick and brutal, quick sharp thrusts as he brought his hands down to further spread John, making it easier for them to move.  John let him.  Mikey was slower, leaving open mouthed kisses on his neck as he thrust in slowly, almost pulling out with each draw backward.

John lost track of time, slumped against David’s chest, his head turned to the side, keeping his neck exposed and vulnerable, completely at the mercy of the two.  He never once opened his eyes again through the whole ordeal.  David was coming soon now, Mikey not far behind him.  David’s thrust became sharper, more erratic before he let out a cry, pushing John down onto his cock as he spilled into him.  Mikey could only thrust shallowly into John now, but it was still enough friction for him to come, too, pressing in deeply, both cocks pressing so heavy inside of him.  Mikey’s teeth sank into his neck and John didn’t even offer a cry of pain in response.  He supposed he should be glad that he was feeling exhausted again, which meant sleep.  Release.

They pulled him up, off of them and set him to the side.  Already he could feel them dripping out of him, running over his thighs.  He felt hands pulling him apart again and he hoped they weren’t expecting another round for it already, because he wasn’t going to be conscious for it.  But they didn’t seem to be expecting that from him, as the hands fell away from him again, warmth leaving.  One of them got up, pulling their clothes back on, while the other stayed on the bed.  When a warm hand traveled down his spine, he knew it was Mikey that had stayed.  He wasn’t sure who he hated the most of the three.  They all had qualities about them that made John sick to his stomach.

Sebastian was controlling and the master of the group, the quickest to the blade and just as soon to the possessive kissing.  David was brutal and kick to temper, never showing John any mercy unless told otherwise by Sebastian.  John was certain that if David had his way with him, he would have been dead by the first week, raped on the first day.  Mikey was gentle, but not out of kindness.  It made John sick, couldn’t even remember the last time someone was kind to him, or touched him gently.  The only image he could conjure was of Sherlock, the occasional touch to the small of his back, his hands pressed to his arm.  That one time their fingers lock together.  He couldn’t even remember anything he did with his many girlfriends.  They weren’t important anymore.  Nothing was.

Nothing but Sherlock.

When he died, his last thought was going to be of Sherlock, his last breath would be Sherlock, his last word would be Sherlock.  He would die with Sherlock and he was okay with that.

“We told you you could take us both.  Doubted us, didn’t you?  But you took us, took us like a whore.  You were so god damn tight and perfect, we fit into you like a key in a lock.  You were made for this, John Watson,” David’s voice was chilling, even sending a shiver down his spine that Mikey surely felt under his ministrations.  Then the hand was gone and Mikey pulled on his clothes as well before they both left.  John didn’t think further, just let his mind grow blank until nothing was there anymore.  Then he pulled forward an image, one that only he would even get to see.  Sherlock smiling at him after a joke passed between them.  It wasn’t one of his fake smiles.  It was genuine and it was meant for John only.

The yelling and cursing was what woke him up hours later and he stirred awake, listening to the voices outside the door.  Sebastian was back and he was furious.  His meeting with whoever he had gone to see had obviously not gone over that well.  He was probably going to take it out on John.  He curled up more, ignoring the ache that ripped through his entire body at the small movement.  Even his eyes hurt.  There was a loud crash, what sounded like the chair being thrown against the wall until it was as silent as death.  Footsteps approached the door and it was thrown open with force, slamming into the wall.  John tried not to flinch as Sebastian drew near.  He smelt of cigarettes, bubblegum forgotten.

He gripped John’s hair tightly, yanking him out of the bed.  As soon as his feet touched the cold floor, the slash marks in his soles peeling open, blood spilling and pulling under his feet.  He was lead out of the main room, down a hallway he had never been before, limping with each step.  Mikey and David stared after him.  Mikey even looking a little sorry for John as he was shoved from the room.  Sebastian kept John moving, never saying a word, his brow knit together as he glared at the space in front of them, his gaze frightening.  John made sure to look straight forward, too, never looking back at the man.  He was scared, terrified, even.  But under that was an ocean of calm.  It felt like the end, as if Sebastian was finally done with him and was going to end this pain forever.

He felt the chill before they arrived at the large metal door, a small window set into the metal.  A freezer.  Sebastian slid the heavy door open and the cold air poured out over them.  The taller man didn’t even flinch as he pushed John into the open doorway and into the frost.  When John hesitated, Sebastian pushed and John fell forward, slamming into the floor.  The door slid shut behind him and he turned to see that Sebastian hadn’t entered after him.  His body wasn’t shivering yet, but it would only be a matter of time.  He supposed it was better than other alternatives, freezing to death.  Eventually he would just fall asleep and never wake up.  Pulling himself up, he dragged himself to a corner, curling up to keep his warmth center.

The door clattered open again after a few minutes and Sebastian marched in again, glaring down at John this time.  In his hand he held a vest.  But not just any vest.  John recognized it.  It looked almost the same as the one Moriarty and forced him into all those years ago at the poolside.  Sebastian didn’t even have to say anything and John was already holding up his arms, ready to take the vest.  Sebastian didn’t even smirk as he slid the bomb over John’s ready arms, fasting it in place over his chest.  He patted it one last time before leaving once more.  John was confused now.  Did they want him to freeze to death or blow up?

His question was answered when Sebastian came back.  John looked up at him as Sebastian looked down at him, impassive now.  When he surged forward, John wasn’t even expecting it.  He slammed John’s head back against the wall and John heard a crack, his vision snapping off.  John felt him being thrown into the middle of the freezer, his eyesight slowly brightening back up.  The back of his head was wet, sticky with blood.  There was the sound of a zipper being pulled and then Sebastian was between his legs, pushing in.  John tipped his head back and screamed as Sebastian dove into him, no preparation whatsoever.  It felt like a heated stick had been shoved into his guts, his whole body could feet each thrust, even the tips of his toes.  He was going to split in two.

Sebastian didn’t take long, keeping his thrust wild and harsh, pulling all the way out until only the head of his cock remained inside of John before snapping his hips and burying himself back into the tight heat.  It was slicker near the end, blood lubing the process a bit, but not enough.  The friction inside of John was unbearable and the cold was forgotten at the steady burn.  With a growl, Sebastian shoved into him one last time, hard enough that John scooted across the floor, and came inside of John’s arse, leaning down to grip John’s shoulder in his teeth and biting down hard, more blood spilling.  Almost as fast as he pushed in, he pulled out, leaving John a whimpering, bleeding mess.

Sebastian looked down at him in disgust before standing up, his flaccid cock hanging out from the zip in his trousers.  He tucked himself back in and closed them.  He straightened out his shirts, running his hands down the material to get rid of any wrinkles that dared crease it.  John merely watched, wondering what would come next, his whole body going numb already.  Sebastian let out a deep breath and brushed back his hair with his fingers.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a device, holding it up so John could see what it was.  A trigger, most likely for the bomb attached to John’s chest at the moment.

“It’s been fun, Johnny-boy, but even fun can get tiring.  I’m bored with you now.  I don’t need you anymore,” he let out a sigh, boredom falling on his face and John was horrified to realize just how much the man was like Moriarty.  Sebastian shrugged finally, “It’s been fun, John.  See you in hell when I get there,” he pulled out a cigarette, lighting it before he crouched down and left a John a smoky kiss.

With a clang, the door closed.

John stared at the ceiling until his eyes grew heavy.  He closed them and hoped he would be asleep with Sebastian finally pressed the button.

* * *

 

“John.”

There was a hand, gentle, caressing his face.  Far more gentle than even Mikey had been with him.  The hand traveled down, touching the collar on his neck before jerking away as if it had been burned.  Back to his face.

“John.”

Louder this time, less muddled.  John groaned, moving his head before instantly deciding that was a bad idea.  His head hurt.  He was still cold.  His eyes fluttered open, just making out a silhouette hovering over him before snapping back shut again, the harsh light shooting straight into his brain.  He groaned again.  There was something on him.  The vest, of course.  No, there was something more, almost as long as him, like a blanket.  And it smelled- oh god.  He instinctively reached up, grabbing onto the material and pulling it closer.  If this was some cruel joke, well it was working and he was falling for it.  He managed to open his eyes longer this time and saw eyes shining with concern and tears looking down at him.  Concern and tears?  For him?  His eyes shut again and he felt arms squirm under him, lifting him up.

He whined in pain and the person stopped, pausing to make sure he was alright.  Eventually the pain subsided and his body relaxed again.  They person took that as a sign to continue what he was doing.  His body jostled with each step, but he was comfortable in these arms, letting his head turn, pressing up against their neck and letting out a deep sigh.  The chill receded as they moved farther away from the freezer and into the warmth.  The moving stop and he was being lowered again.  John pressed closer.

“I’m not going anywhere John.  Never again.  I’m not going anywhere ever again,” then a hand was going through his hair, just like in his dream, softly brushing over his head, careful to stay away from the wound on the back and John let out a breath as he sank into the touch.  He opened his eyes, this time managing to keep them open and stare at the person- man above him.  He knew those eyes, he knew that face, he knew that hair.  He knew that damn voice and scent.  But he didn’t know this man above him.  He couldn’t know him.  It was impossible to know this man.

“Are you an angel?” his voice was dry and cracked, only a murmur and he was afraid the man didn’t hear him.  The man’s eyes widened before his eyebrows cinched together, the very image of sadness.  He didn’t confirm or deny John’s word, only leaning down to place a kiss onto his forehead and clutching him closer, still wary of John’s many cuts and wounds.

“I’m ready to go.  I’ve lived a relatively good life, don’t you think?  So if you’re here to take me, I’m more than ready to go.”

“No, John-“ another kiss, another squeeze.  Then nothing but black.


	9. Chapter 9

The first thing he noticed was the smell, the familiar scent of chemicals and hospitals.  It was strangely comforting to be surrounded by it, it felt like he was back where he belonged.  Then he noticed the beeping.  He waited, counting.  It was staying in tune with his heart.  So hospital it was.  His dreams were always so cruel to him, giving him a place of comfort for a small amount of time.  He just hoped he didn’t open his eyes and find Sherlock hovering over him.  He briefly remembered an angel that looked like him.  So maybe this wasn’t a dream, this was whatever was after death.  A hospital.  Death sucked.

His eyes fluttered open, slowly adjusting to the brightness.  Whoever decided that hospitals should be as white as possible should have been shot.  He tried to push himself up, but pain rippled through his body and he lay back down with a cry of pain.  So he still hurt.  Didn’t that mean he wasn’t dead?  He had never felt pain in any of his dreams, or even his nightmares before, either.  He turned his head to look at the monitors beside him, mostly looking for what he needed.  There, against the wall, a call button.  He weakly reached for it, just barely managing to press it.  It lit up and he fell back in exhaustion and waited.

He didn’t have to wait that long, though.  Hurrying feet made their way to his room, quickly swinging the door open.  The nurses and doctors came in first, followed cautiously by the others.  He saw Lestrade, Molly, Sarah, and even Harry, who was hovering behind them.  The medical personnel were poking and prodding him, checking out his eyes and head, glancing at his arms and chest.  He let them do their thing, moving his limbs around like a puppet, checking out his broken hand to make sure it was healing well, occasionally asking him yes or no questions, to which he merely nodded or shook his head at.  He was relieved when they finally left him alone with the others.  He let his eyes slide back closed, resting them for only a minute.

He reopened them again when he felt a presence over him.  Harry, her eyes wet with tears, stood over him.  As soon as his eyes reopened, her hands were on his face, stroking his cheeks softly with her thumbs.  She pressed a shaky kiss to his head and choked back a sob, he whole body quivering.  He reached up with his good hand, placing it on the back over her wrist and squeezing comfortingly.  The IV tugged a bit from the movement, but he didn’t care.  He would have even burrowed his face into her neck if his nose wasn’t broken.  She was the only one crying, though.  John couldn’t bring up any more tears.  It seemed his eyes had finally run dry.

Lestrade and the others had come up on the other side of the bed, the detective looking like he wanted to reach out and hold onto his arm.  John gave a weak wave at them, “Hi,” he even tried to fake a smile, but couldn’t bring himself to put that kind of expression on his face.  Lestrade’s brow furrowed in grief and finally his hand settled down on John’s arms, squeezing onto it.

“Oh, god, I was so worried,” Harry was talking now, fast and full of tears, “When I got the call I was so scared.  I haven’t taken one sip of alcohol since you disappeared, as though that would bring you back.  Like it was somehow my fault, for not being a good family member when you needed one.  I thought you were dead and I-“ she broke down again, wrapping her arms around him, “Oh, Johnny-“

He stiffened and tried to pull away from her, “Don’t.  Don’t call me that.  Don’t ever call me that.”

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed harder, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

He didn’t say anything now, just shut his eyes again, trying not to hear Sebastian’s voice in his head, taunting him with that name.

“Johnny-boy!  What should we do to you today?”

He wrenched his eyes back open.  His back was arched and the doctors and nurses were back, holding him down.  He felt blood dripping down his hand, his IV had been ripped from the vein.  He didn’t remember much, only someone familiar saying his name, soothing him.  Had he had a seizure?  A panic attack?  The latter seemed most likely.  He could still hear Sebastian in his head, overlapped with Harry sobbing in the background.  He could see her by the door, Sarah had her held in a hug.  Lestrade was talking to someone outside.  Mycroft, most likely.  Of course that prick couldn’t be bothered to even step foot into his room.

He relaxed, letting the nurses put the IV back in, get him back to normal.  They checked over all his injuries again, pulling up his shirt to check on all the cuts on his chest and stomach.  They shooed Lestrade and all the other visitors out of the room so they could continue checking over John in privacy.  They checked the wounds on his thighs, traveling down to check on the bottom of his feet.  Luckily he hadn’t seem to pull any stitches in his thrashings or whatever he had done.  Everything seemed to be in order.  They put all his clothes back on, asked him a few questions, which he numbly answered and then he was left alone again.  This time Lestrade was the only who came back in, hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

“How long was I gone?”  John finally managed to croak out and immediately Lestrade shuffled over to the side of his bed again, a hand reaching up to scratch at the back of his head.  A nervous twitch.

“Nearly two months,” he answered so softly that John at first thought he hadn’t heard the man correctly.  But then the words sunk in and all the breath left his body in a rush.  He fell back on his bed, eyes staring at the ceiling.

“Two months?  I completely lost track.  I had no idea,” his eyes slid closed, but then he quickly opened them again, remembering what happened the last time he had decided to rest his eyes.  He didn’t want a repeat of that incident.  He tried to shift again and found he was able to do it much easier now.  They must have upped his morphine dosage, his body mostly numb now.  On one hand, he was in less pain, on the other one, he might not be able to tell if he pulled his stitches.  He settled back down, resolving not to move again until it was necessary.

“How?”  John finally asked the question that had been chewing away at his mind, but Lestrade just looked at him questioningly, “How did I get out of there?”

“We found you,” he cleared his throat, “with some help.”

“But the vest-“

“We were able to disarm it just in time.  He had it set to a timer if the dead man switch didn’t work.”

“There was a- then how-“

“Look, just get some rest.  You need it.  I’ll come back in later and explain everything after you’re fully rested.”

John sighed, “You’ll explain everything to me?”  Greg nodded, “And I mean everything, Lestrade,” he nodded again, this time looking a bit worried.  But John trusted that he would follow through with his promise and almost immediately fell back into some much needed sleep.

The talk he wanted so desperately didn’t happen immediately after he woke up, like he had hoped it would.  Though, now that he thought about it, that should have been obvious from the beginning.  His health came first, his curiosity after.  The nurses fussed over him until he shooed them away, telling them he was fine and wanted to be alone.  They left him with some food before they disappeared.  He still couldn’t handle solid foods, so they gave him things like broth, applesauce, and jello.  He mostly poked at them, eating only a small amount of what they had given him before pushing his tray to the side.  His water he downed like a dying man, though.

TV was boring, nothing interesting on, and he quickly turned it off after flipping through the available channels, tossing the remote to the side.  It was extremely silent in his private room, but he was grateful for it.  He didn’t want an annoying roommate at the moment, if ever; he wasn’t feeling exactly chatty.  The area of the hospital he was in was quiet, too.  All of this was no doubt Mycroft’s doing, getting him into the best place for his recovery.  He just hoped the man hadn’t put him into St. Barts, but some other hospital.

Lestrade didn’t come that day, or the day after, and John was beginning to wonder if the man had broken his promise.  But, then again, he had said they would talk about it after he was fully rested, and John never felt fully rested.  He couldn’t understand it.  He had slept plenty during his time at the hospital, fitful as  it was and plagued with word, smiles, and the lingering smell of bubblegum and smoke.  Yet he felt it was more than enough.  Yet his body always craved for more, trying to repair itself and exhausting its energy.  It wasn’t until the day the cuts on the bottom of his feet were healed enough that Lestrade came back.  He was being led down a hallway, grasping onto his IV stand as he had his cane to keep himself steady when he bumped into the man.  The nurse had been murmuring words of encouragement to which he stayed quiet, a frown on his face.  He hated how weak he was, like a new born baby.

“Hello, John.  Glad to see you’re doing better.”

John looked up to see Lestrade standing in the hallway in front of them.  The nurse left to give them some space.  The detective was smiling softly, but he still looked sad, even a bit guilty, as though he was the reason John was like this.

“Hey, Greg,” he offered a weak, fake smile in return and the guilt deepened, “Finally able to walk again, even if I am a bit unsteady.  The cuts on my feet have healed and they say they can take the IV out in a few days,” he wet his chapped lips with his tongue, “Is it finally time we talked?”

“Yes, but I think it’s best that we go back to your room.”

He nodded, turning back and motioning off Lestrade’s movements to help him.  He could handle this.  It was a slow walk back, uncomfortable silent the entire way and once John fell back down onto his bed, he let out a whooshed breath of relief to be back in his room.  Lestrade almost closed the door behind them, leaving it open just a crack as he stared out into the hallway.  John watched as he seemed to be communicating to someone out in the hallway with only the movement of his arms until the conversation finally ended with him holding up one finger and backing away from the door.

“Who was that?”

“Someone you need to see.  But not now, in a few minutes,” John was ready to argue, so Lestrade continued, “I’m not going to ask you any questions until you’re ready to answer them.”

“I’m ready.”

“No you’re not, John,” he shook his head in sadness, “The nurses tell me you jump every time someone walks into the room, even after they announce their arrival.  You also haven’t eaten much of your food.”

“Whatever happened to patient confidentiality?”

Lestrade let out a deep sigh and John turned to look out the window.  It had been his only source of entertainment for the last few days and he found it much more stimulating than whatever was on the TV.  He figured it was also because he hadn’t seen the outside in two months and now that he had it, his eyes couldn't break free from the sight of it.

“I just want you to be okay, John.  I want to get you back to normal.”

“There is no normal for me anymore, Lestrade.”

“Now, John-“

“Don’t.  I know you’re concerned as a friend, that you’ve seen people like me, but you’ve never experienced it yourself.  So don’t you come in here telling me everything is going to be all right and that it’s all just going to magically settle back into normality because that’s not going to happen.  It wasn’t ever going to happen.  My life was knocked off that route when my best friend decided to take a step off a rooftop while I watched.”

It was silent in the room and Greg looked down at his feet.  There was movement at the door, but John dismissed it, his gaze focused on the detective still.

“You’re wounded,” a rich, baritone voice said from the hallway, but the words were clear enough to be heard in the room, “You’ve been hurt.  You’re bleeding and open.  All you need are some stiches and care, bandages for your wound,” a figure opened the door, stepping inside, “And it will slowly heal, scab over until the flesh is put back together,” eyes that couldn’t figure out their color looked up and held John in their gaze, “But it won’t be the same.  You’ll be scarred, you’ll always remember the wound, how it felt, how it hurt.  But it will be gone, though not fully mended.  I understand that, John, and I want to be your stiches if you’ll have me.”

All the air left John in a whoosh and he felt like he was about to have another attack of sorts, either a panic one or a violent one in which he killed someone.  He looked at the figure, staring at it, memorizing every shadow, every cell.  Greg looked uncomfortable, whispering something out of the corner of his mouth, which sounded like, “I thought I told you to wait,” but the man ignored him, keeping his gaze steady on the man in the bed.

“No,” he whispered it at first until he found his voice again, “No.  You’re dead.”

“No, John.  Don’t you remember?  You thought I was an angel, that I had come to claim you.  It was me.  I’m real.  Here, feel my hand,” he took a step forward, but John shook his head and he stopped, arm outstretched.

“I saw you fall.  I smelt the blood.  I felt your still wrist.”

“All faked for your protection.  I assure you, John, that I am real,” he took another step, his hand outstretched and this time John took it, fingers brushing lightly over the skin.  It was warm to the touch.  He slid his hand down to the wrist, holding it between his fingers and finding a pulse beating strongly through the veins.  He held on tighter.

“Sherlock,” the name was more like a sound than a word and he curled in on himself and the hand, now held to his chest.

“Yes, yes.  It’s me,” he was standing next to him now, his other hand hovering wanting to hold him, but hovering uselessly, unsure of what to do.  John didn’t cry.  He couldn’t cry.  He just held onto the hand, about as sure as Sherlock was at the moment.  He didn’t know whether to yell or laugh, punch him or hug him.  He kept still for a moment, hands squeezed together as he tried to process everything that had just been brought before him.  It was too much.  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to slow down his thinking, but it was no use.  He pushed the hand away and might as well have punched the man it belonged to with that movement.  Recoiling from the others, he turned his back to them, pulling the IV as far as it would stretch.

“Get out,” his voice was that of calm indifference, but cold rage seethed underneath the two syllables.  He knew Sherlock was going to protest, so he repeated himself with a little more force, a touch more of the anger he felt at his betrayal and finally he was alone, Lestrade following after the lanky detective.  John went back to staring out the window, but not focusing on the activity outside, his head too full with other things to mull over.

* * *

 

IV was finally out, his hand still in a cast unfortunately, but he was given freedom to wander about the hospital to stretch his legs if he needed to.  He usually never needed to; he was just getting bored of his bland room, even with the window.  They just made sure he kept a cane in his hand at all times.  He felt like an invalid released from the war again, but instead of a limp, he hobbled on both feet, scowling the whole way, daring anyone to help him.  No one did.  He felt a small spark of success at that, followed by a conflicting feeling of being completely and utterly alone.  Harry had already gone home, probably back to consuming copious amounts of alcohol to drown herself in her worries.  If anyone needed a beer or two, it was him.

A familiar head of dark curly hair caught his attention and he stopped to stare into the waiting room.  He hadn’t seen the man in a few days, but it seemed he hadn’t left the hospital from the look of him.  His hair was disheveled, his clothes askew as he somehow found comfort in his cramped position on the chair.  John had never understood how such a tall man could curl up into such a small space and still be perfectly at ease.  If he tried half the positions the man put himself into, John’s back would be killing him for a week.  His head was clearer now, but he still had to work up the courage to approach the sleeping figure.  He took the empty seat to the left of him, cane leaning against his knee.

It was quiet, but it was just what he needed.  He slumped over in the chair, leaning slightly in Sherlock’s direction.  Finding small comfort in the man’s presence, even in the unforgivable chair, he slid into sleep.  His sleep was nice for once, not haunted by memories of any kind, just inky darkness that he sunk into with a sigh of relief.  It was nice.  Familiar in a way.  He woke up with a start when a loud noise broke through the fog in his mind.  His cane had slipped out of his hand during his sleep, clattering onto the floor.  His heart was beating a mile a minute, terror gripping at his entire body, his right hand gripping tightly onto something after his spasm waking up.  He blinked, feeling the horror leave him and realized his hand was locked tight onto Sherlock’s scarf.

The man had woken up at one point, now facing him, but John couldn’t bring himself to look the taller man in the face, keeping his head bowed as he slowly let go, letting his hand drop back to his side.  Sherlock’s hands moved toward him and were now- he let out a shuddering breath, almost curling into their touch.  One was stretched across his body, gripping the opposite arm.  The other was running through his hair in a calming manner, just like in his dreams.  Sherlock noticed the change in him almost immediately and took it the wrong way, moving to withdraw his hands.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“

“No.  Please.”

The hands were back, those long fingers running though his hair again to calm his nerves and he melted under their touch.  This.  This was what he had always wanted.  In a way, it was sick and twisted for him to have to go through all he did just to have this.  He knew it wouldn’t last.  Sherlock would go back to his usual self when, if, John moved back in with him.  He still didn’t know if he could trust the man anymore.  There was only so many times one could be lied to until their trust was completely shattered and John wondered if his faked death would be the final breaking point.

“We’re going to have to talk.  And I mean really talk, not just say a few words.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but he heard the rustling of his clothes as he nodded his head in return.  That was good enough for John for now, to know that the man would hopefully tell him everything, finally open up.  Because that was what he needed right now.  Someone to open up to him and maybe in return, he would crack open a bit and little by little tell his own story.  But not now.  He still felt sick to his stomach to think about it now.  Maybe later.  They stayed where they were for a while, Sherlock still holding onto John as though he was afraid he would sink out of his chair.

“Lets go back to my room,” he finally sighed, moving away reluctantly from the touch.  Sherlock leaned forward, plucking the cane off the floor.  He looked hesitant on whether to give it back or not until John stuck out his hand and he surrendered it over to the man.

“I’m sure you don’t need that.”

“I’m sure I do, Sherlock.  This isn’t a psychosomatic limp this time that can be miraculously cured.”

If Sherlock was hurt, he hid it well.  But John could tell by the way he walked that the words had stung.  He reached out and gingerly tugged on the sleeve of the man’s jacket.  He turned and stared.

“I haven’t forgiven you.”

“I know.”

“And there’s no guarantee that I ever will.”

“I know,” Sherlock repeated.

“Then why bother?  Why stay here, sleeping in some cramped, uncomfortable chair?”

“Because you’re my only friend, John Watson, and I don’t want to lose you again.”

John let out a huff of breath with a smile, shaking his head, “People say that I’m one of the few that can understand you, but there are times where I have absolutely no idea why you’re thinking what you are.  You’re a man of mystery, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave a small smile, a real one, “That’s just how I like it.”

“I knew it.”


	10. Chapter 10

When they got back to John’s room, Sherlock talked and John listened.  That’s all they did for hours on end.  Sherlock started at the beginning, when he jumped off the roof of St. Barts.  John would nod and ask questions when they rose to his mind, but otherwise he stayed quiet and let the man tell his own story.  He could tell it was hard for Sherlock to tell parts.  He almost seemed ashamed for sections, skipping over things he didn’t truly want to tell.  John could tell he was dancing around facts, leaving out things, but he didn’t push it for a while.  He let the man continue, afraid that if he interrupted with a big question, the train would leave the tracks and Sherlock would clam up, refusing to tell him anything for days or weeks.

But finally, it seemed that Sherlock’s retelling of his encounters and doings were winding down, it was harder for him to speak to John as his tale drew closer to Sebastian Moran.  John figured he should be grateful for that, he was pretty sure just the name would be like a blow to the face.  But, on the other hand, he was irritated that Sherlock was treating him like glass that had a crack in it already and didn’t want to worsen the damage.  Sherlock started winding down before he got to the present time.  So, finally he opened his mouth and asked the question that Sherlock didn’t want to answer.

“How many people did you kill?”

Sherlock stiffened, hands twisting around each other and John could see the gears working inside Sherlock’s mind, trying to come up with an answer.  He undoubtedly knew the correct number, most likely had kept track of it all inside his brilliant mind.  Remembering it was one thing, but actually saying out loud the number of murders he had taken part in was another matter all together and he seemed completely lost as to what to do.

“Come on, Sherlock,” he tried to persuade him.  He needed to hear the number, “I was in a war.  I’m sure my kill count is above yours.”

Sherlock shook his head, “Impossible,” he was looking at his hands in horror, as though they still had blood on them.  John grasped them lightly in his own and Sherlock looked up in surprise.

“It won’t do you any good to keep that inside.”

“Why are you taking care of me?  I should be taking care of you, not the other way around.  I don’t need help or coddling.  I-“

“Just let me do this, Sherlock.  Please.”

Sherlock sighed and mumbled something that John didn’t quite catch.  He leaned forward and Sherlock frowned, repeating himself.

“34.”

John sat back up straight.  That was quite a large number.  To be truthful, he had been expecting less.  As always, Sherlock knew where his mind was going.

“Usually I let others do the dirty work.  I’m just like him in that way,” John didn’t ask who “him” was.  He already knew, “But I began to realize that it was simpler if I just did it.  Less mess and they could come clean everything up after, set everything back to normal.  It was just simpler,” he let out a deep sigh and shuddered as he said the next words, “Less boring.”

John was shocked for a moment after those words left Sherlock, not sure what he should do.  Sherlock, himself, had gone still and quiet, his hands squeezed together so tightly that the skin stretched over the knuckles were turning white.  Sherlock was able to read John’s mind and, at times, it seemed John could do the opposite, he grabbed Sherlock’s hands again.

“You’re nothing like them.  Either of them.”

“Yes I am!”  His head snapped up, “I’m worse than them.  It’s all my fault and I’m no better than they are.  You put them together and you wouldn’t even have what I am.  I’m inhuman, uncaring, vile-“

“Then what are you doing here?”  Silence, “If you were really all those things, you wouldn’t waste your time with me.”

“If it were anyone else other than you, I would have just stayed dead.”

“Not even for Mrs. Hudson or Greg, the others with guns pointed at them that day?”

“They’re not as important to me.  They would have never been an option he would have considered.”

“He choose me because I was important to you.”

“It’s my fault.”

John said nothing and they sat together in silence.

“When do the bandages come off?”

The question took John by surprise and he reached up to skim his fingers over the bandages wrapped around his head before he remembered the ones covering his chest.  His hand dropped back down pressing against his shirt and he wished that he would never have to take the bandages off.  He felt safe with them on, in a way.  But he knew, eventually, they would have to come off permanently, no longer just during the changing.  He had never looked at them during those times.  He never wanted to.  But he’d have to.  He’d have to work up to it.

“Don’t know.  Don’t really care. I don’t think I want to know what they wrote in my skin.”

“That’s what they did?  I really couldn’t tell through all the blood…” Sherlock dwindled off, attention back on his hands.  He didn’t want to talk about it.

“What was on the collar?”  John instantly brought his hand up to trace along his neck, “I never bothered reading it.”

Sherlock looked at him, asking with his eyes if he really wanted an answer.  John looked right back, letting him know that, yes, he did want an answer even if he wouldn’t like it.  Sherlock swallowed visibly before speaking, his voice cracking.

“It said Bitch Johnny.”

The world swayed and he felt arms circle around him, his vision tipping and sliding.  He panicked at the weight of the arms, pushing them and shoving them away.  He wouldn’t let Mikey have him again.  They remained persistent though, pushing him backwards onto the mattress, rough weight keeping him down and suppressed.  He couldn’t focus his eyes and he heard himself making a low whining sound, still squirming against the hold.  Then suddenly the arms were gone and he was left alone on the bed.  Was that it.  Had it won?  He blinked, took a shuddering breath.  His forehead felt hot and sticky with sweat, his bangs plastered to his forehead, but his vision was coming back, along with the view of the boring hospital ceiling.

He looked to the side and the first thing he saw was Sherlock’s terrified face.  Lestrade was holding him back.  When had he gotten there?  He didn’t remember him being around earlier.  John could feel tremors working through his whole body, which was burning up, his skin clammy.  He tried to sit up, but Sherlock wrenched free from Lestrade, bounding forward to hover his hands over John, not touching him, but telling him to stay down all the same.  John shook his head and tried to sit up again.  This time Sherlock did touch him.  He swatted the hands away and for a moment Sherlock looked horrified.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” John mumbled and Sherlock immediately understood, grabbing up the rubbish bin and handing it over to John not a moment too soon.  He leaned over the object, emptying what little he had in his stomach and then he dry heaved until he thought he was going to die, every shudder of his body trying to expel what it didn’t had made his spine ache and his stiches pull.  When it was over he remained panting over the rubbish bin, his eyes blurred from the tears brought on by the vomiting.  He felt something wet touch his hand.  A towel held out by Lestrade.  He hadn’t even heard the man move.  He grabbed it gratefully and cleaned off his mouth, spitting out what was in his mouth.

When he straightened back up and saw Lestrade and Sherlock watching him, he felt ashamed, his cheeks burning.  He covered it up by swiping away the tears that had sprung up with the sleeve of his hospital gown, rubbing furiously at his face.  Sherlock gingerly grabbed the rubbish bin from him and he let his arm relax its hold to be taken away.  He bowed his head, trying to take deep breaths to calm himself down.

“I’m sorry-“ both John and Sherlock started to say at the same time.  They glanced at each other in shock.

“Why are you sorry?”  John snapped.

“Because I told you.”

“Because I asked.”

“Then why are you sorry?  You have nothing to be ashamed for.”

“Yet I am.”

“How stupid of you.  You’ve done nothing wrong and there is nothing to be ashamed for losing one’s lunch in this kind of situation.”

“Um, I think I’ll come back later,” Lestrade mumbled, but neither of them paid him any attention as he slid out the door, too busy sending each other glares.  John cursed himself for the shake that still went through his body, his hands trembling worse than they used to after the war.  He gripped his broken hand tightly with his left hand, trying to calm himself.  He continued squeezing until he felt physical pain.  It must have shown on his face, as Sherlock reached over, wrenching his hands apart and placing them back on the bed.  Slowly the pain died to a dull ache.  He didn’t think he had done any permanent damage.  Sherlock’s hands remained on his and he slid his hands out from under his.

“Please leave.”

Sherlock stiffened, his eyes wide and hurt.  He looked like a scolded puppy, not sure what he had done wrong.  John sighed.

“I want to be alone for a while.”

Sherlock relaxed visibly, relief rolling off his body.  He nodded, crazed like a bobble head as he backed away from the bed.

“Of course, of course.  I understand,” but he looked as though he didn’t, his mind trying to come up with some sort of answer as to why John would like to be alone, still afraid he had done something wrong and John wasn’t telling him what it was.  Maybe he wanted to rest?  But he had just slept.  Then again, he had reminded Sherlock several times that people slept more than him so- he was angry at him, wasn’t he?  His mind was a cacophony and John’s words only helped to make it louder.

“I just don’t want to be around people right now.”

It made no sense to Sherlock, but he still left, lingering in the open doorway a bit longer than he should have, shooting one last look over his shoulder before he slid out, a frown on his face.  John had already dismissed him, curling up on his side, eyes looking back out the window, looking as though Sherlock had never been there to begin with.  It hurt.  Sherlock didn’t know why it did.  He honestly didn't know what he had been expecting.  Maybe that they would be going back to they way they were before, but that was before he had figured out just what Moran had done to him.  There was no way they could go back to before.  Sherlock blamed himself for what had been done even if he knew he had never personally had a hand in John’s torment.  Yet, he had been a participant all the same.  He didn’t know if John thought the same way, but he hadn’t said anything when Sherlock had said it was his fault.  He had been quiet, almost like he agreed.

He crumpled back into the chair he had left earlier, blind and deaf to everything around him, too lost in his own mind.  He didn’t even register Lestrade sitting down next to him until the man nudged him with his elbow, shocking him out of his stupor.  The inspector handed him a cup of coffee.  Sherlock tipped the lip open, staring at the warm liquid before popping the lip back on.  Deeming it worthy, he took a sip and let out a sigh.

“It’s not going to be a quick or easy transition,” Lestrade started and Sherlock could barely stop himself from rolling his eyes.  Of course he knew that.  Who did Lestrade take him for?  Anderson?  “We don’t know how much he’s been damaged.”

“He’s not damaged,” he snapped, ruffled, gripping tightly to his cup that it indented a bit.

“Sorry, sorry.  It’s just that,” Lestrade seemed at a loss for words, “He’d different and always will be.  He’s never going to be the person he was before, like, um…” Sherlock could almost see his feeble mind grasping for a metaphor of some kind he could use for moments like these, “It’s like there’s a cracked mirror.  Before, he was the figure looking into the mirror, now he’s the reflection.”

“I told you.  He’s not broken!”  His coffee was discarded, forgotten on the seat next to him so he wouldn’t spill it all over himself.

Lestrade sighed, “Yet you think he needs to be fixed.”

Sherlock couldn’t argue against that.  He didn’t think John was broken, there was no way that man could be broken, could there?  But, at the same time, he wanted to fix him.  He didn’t want to use the words broken, damaged, or ruined when regarding John because he could never see John that way.  In his mind, John was still his blogger, his strong soldier.  No, he wasn’t his.  That much was obvious.  Sherlock wasn’t even sure that John would still consider them friends or if he would go back to saying Sherlock was nothing more than his colleague.  He hoped not, but he could understand if John wanted it that way.  He tucked his legs up against his chest.

Lestrade left some time later, but Sherlock didn’t notice.  It seemed to him as if he merely blinked and the man disappeared, but he knew that he had probably been sitting there for well over an hour now and Lestrade was long gone.  He wondered if he had said anything else before he left.  Probably, but as to what, he would never know, though he probably didn’t care anyway.  It was most likely unimportant.  He steepled his hands back up under his chin, frowning deeply.  John hadn’t tried to talk to him.  He was sure he would come back to reality if John had approached him.  Sherlock unfolded himself, picking up his cold coffee.  He trotted past the rubbish can and threw the cup away.  He didn’t need or want coffee anymore.  He doesn’t want much of anything at the moment.  He had more important things to do instead.  Reluctantly, he left the hospital building.

* * *

 

John peeked out into the hallway and let out a sigh of relief when he saw no one milling about, especially not a certain lanky detective moping about.  He limped out, pulling his gown tighter around himself.  He moved past the small waiting room, peeking in as he passed.  There were a few people in there, but he couldn’t see Sherlock anywhere.  Maybe the man had finally left.  He could only hope that he had.  He needed to go out, get a proper meal, and sleep in an actual bed.  Of course, knowing Sherlock, he lad left for anything but those reasons and John wondered just what reason it was.  He hardly knew anything about how Sherlock had gotten him out, so maybe he had gone to tie up some lose ends.  John hoped they were all dead, but, seeing as how no one had told him that, he figured that wasn’t the case.

He walked around the hospital twice just because he could, feeling good to be back on two feet, even with the help of his cane, and moving about freely.  No one stopped to him or tried to talk to him, and he supposed he had Sherlock to thank for that.  He had probably sat, sulking in the waiting room and thrown out his usual insulting deductions about the nurses.  And, since they knew that John was acquainted to the rude git, they steered clear of him incase he was just like him.  As he hobbled back into his room, he couldn’t stop the sigh that left him when he saw Mycroft sitting in one of the chairs, finally making his appearance.

“So you decide to show up after your dead brother?  That doesn’t seem very right.”

“It’s because I’m here about him.”

John sat down heavily on his bed, “Go on.”

“Has he told you?”

“He’s told me what he’s done these past years, but once he started working up to the present time, his story began to slow down.”

“Predictable.  He doesn’t want to tell you how he found you.  I suspect he’s ashamed of it as well.”

“What did he have to do?”

“He had to act as though he didn’t care about you, sending Sebastien into a blinding rage and making him careless.  Of course, it also made him take his anger out on you, something I’m sure Sherlock will never get over.  He’s never want you, hurt, you know?”  No reply, “He’s always tried to do what he could to keep you safe in his stupid ways.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Apparently not, or you wouldn’t be in the hospital as a rape victim, now would you?’

John’s stomach turned, though he knew there was nothing left in it to throw up, and his left hand clenched into a fist, wondering how it would feel to punch both of the Holmes brothers one after the other.  He decided it would be a wonderful feeling.

“Also, no matter what war you fought in, I don’t think even you would have been able to step out of the path of a bullet intent on cutting through your brain.  And not just yours.  Sherlock took that step off of St. Barts because he had no other choice.  With Moriarty dead, and guns pointed at you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, he took the choice of death.  It was just unlucky that you returned.  He sent you away with a fake phonecall, don’t you remember?  He didn’t want you there to see him in case worse came to worse.  In the end, I believe that the scenario came to the worst possible one for him and he didn’t want to make it even worse by living.  You owe him your life multiples times over, John.”

“As does he, now sod off before I have you kicked out.”

“That wouldn’t be a wise idea.  Who do you think put you into this room?”

“I think that you would still keep me in this room because if you didn’t, your baby brother would throw a fit and we don’t want that.”

He got a small smile from that, but it was gone.  Mycroft stood, pulling his jacket back on, “Very well, but I will be back when I have time.  And, please do try to make peace with my brother.  He only meant the best.”

“Doesn’t mean I can forgive him.”

“Perhaps, but it also doesn’t mean you have to cut him out of your life.  The reason you’re still alive is the reason why he’s still alive.”

“He would never stoop so low.”

“Oh, but he already has, Doctor Watson.  Good day,” and with a click of his heels, Mycroft left and John was left to his own thoughts, and what scary thoughts they were.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Merry Christmas? /nervous laughter
> 
> This chapter wasn't really what I expected and I'm not exactly happy with it, but it will do.

They were going to take the bandages on his chest and back  off permanently today.  He knew, had read his chart against his better judgment.  He had stared at the words and shorthand scribbled down on the chart, taking in all that the damage that had been inflicted on his body.  His head suffered from a concussion, the broken nose, multiple bite wounds on the neck, ears and jaw, his hand, of course, several bruised and fractured ribs, which he had not been aware of, internal bleeding, tearing of the anal passage, and numerous cuts on his body, both front and back.

He was grateful they hadn’t written down what they said.  Probably wasn’t important enough for them to include in the report, not medically important until it was on a psychological level.  He had set the chart back almost as if it had burned him.  Sherlock had known he had looked at the chart as soon as he walked into John’s hospital room.  He hadn’t said anything and two had been content to sit in silence, John reading a book Mrs. Hudson had brought for him, but never really reading it.  He had read it before, no point in actually paying attention.  Sherlock had sat, cramped in his chair, face impassive, hands steepled under his chin.  What he was thinking about, John didn’t know and he didn’t bother asking.

Setting his book aside with a sigh, he swung his legs over the side of his bed.  He could feel his left hand shaking and he had to stop to press it against the bed, closing his eyes as he took deep breaths to steady himself.  Cool fingers wrapped around his wrist and he jerked away on instinct, a growl in his throat.  He glared up to see Sherlock standing over him, arms retracting back to his side.  John’s defenses fell and Sherlock reached forward again, grabbing his left hand and placing it against his, palm against palm.  His hand was quaking compared to Sherlock’s still, calm hand.  Cool fingers wrapped around him and Sherlock bent down, forehead pressed against John’s shoulder, pressing John’s shaking hand to his heart and squeezing it, as though trying to tell him not to be scared anymore.  It wasn’t working.

There was uncomfortable coughing from the doorway and the both moved from each other, John’s hand falling back to the bed, “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t, it’s okay.”

“Right,” she looked completely uncomfortable now, “Um, Mr. Holmes, if you could please give him some privacy. “

Sherlock looked ready to argue when John’s voice broke through to him, “Just go wait outside the room, Sherlock,” and Sherlock slunk out of the room without another word, casting one last glance over his shoulder as he left.  The nurse wheeled in her equipment and set to work, helping John shrug off his clothes.  She worked quietly and methodically, sensing that the last thing John wanted to do was have a chat with some random woman.  The old John would have probably flirted with her, but now he saw no reason to, just let her get on with her work and finish it as soon as she could.  She washed the words off and finally stood back, chewing on her bottom lip.

“Do you need some help to the bathroom?”

“No,” his voice cracked and he cursed himself, “No, I’m fine.  I can manage that on my own.”

He rose shaky to his feet, clutching his can.  He could feel the nurse’s eyes on him every step of the way, staying close behind him to make sure he didn’t fall, he shooed her away with his free hand and she moved back about a foot.  He moved into the bathroom and was grateful that she hovered outside.  The skin over his knuckles was white as he gripped onto his cane and he gently loosened his hands to lean the cane against the sink, only to grip onto the porcelain sink instead.  He brought his eyes up to the mirror slowly.  His chest was completely open for his eyes, every word like a small knife.  They were all written backward, but he could read them just as well.

Mikey’s name was carved over his left hipbone, David’s down the side of his ribcage.  He couldn’t see Sebastian’s name, so he turned to look at his back.  There it was, carved down his spine, jagged lines, but cut with precision and a steady hand.  He had even included his last name, as though John would forget it otherwise.  He would never forget Sebastian’s name until the day he died.  There were other words carved into his skin, there was a “Moriarty” over spread over his right shoulder blade.  On the left one was carved a “Sherlock Holmes is a fake.”  He turned back to his front, his eyes still staying away from the wounds above his collarbone, Sebastian’s favorite.  There was an “IOU” over his other hipbone, a “Richard Brooks” over his left lung, and a “Sherlock abandoned you” over his heart.  He felt sick and he hadn’t even gotten to the big one yet.

He could see the nurse on the outskirts on peripheral vision, still waiting for him to finish or to rush to his aide if she needed to, “I’m fine,” he managed to choke out, “I’m sure you have other patients to look after.  I’m fine,” he repeated.

She shook her head, “Sir, maybe it’s best if you go back to your bed.  You’re looking ill and your face is white.  Follow me, sir.”

No.  He couldn’t allow that.  Not yet.  He turned as though moving toward the door and saw her give a small smile as he moved.  He could only wish he could see her face as he slammed the door in her face, locked the knob and eased his can up under the knob to lock it even further.  He could hear her pounding on the door with her fists, but he turned her off, focusing only on what was in the mirror.  These cuts were different.  He remembered the precision and care that had been put into the blade during that time, the look of pure glee and concentration on Sebastian’s face as he had moved the metal through his skin.  Now he could see why, as the entire message spanned the length of his chest and it was written backwards, completely legible in the mirror.

“This is Sherlock Holmes’s fault.”

He felt he had been punched in the gut and backed away from the sink until his back hit the opposite wall.  His knees gave out from under him and he collapsed, sinking down the wall.  The pounding on the door was back again, accompanied with the hammering in his skull.  He could hear the nurse, but also Sherlock in the background, yelling to be let go, to talk to John.  It didn’t seem like the people holding him back were going to be letting him loose anytime soon.  And John didn’t want them to.  His voice was far too loud, crying out for John, for him to reply.  But then his voice was right there, the door had been opened and Sherlock was over him, pushing away the other nurses, trying to give John space while allowing no space between them with his own body.

“Go away,” John heard himself hiss, head bowed and hidden in his knees, both hands over his head, the cast knocking oddly into the back of his head, “Go away, Sherlock.”

It was quiet, save for Sherlock’s ragged breathing and finally, small and timid, “John?”

“Go away,” Louder this time, more sure of himself as he spit out the words, “I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to talk to you.”

“John think about what you’re-“

“Get out, Sherlock Holmes!”  He looked up, eyes hard and a growl in his throat, “Get the fuck out!  This is all your fault!”

It wasn’t.  Not truly.  But those words etched into his skin were a part of him now, infecting his mind and body.  He had been taken by Sebastian because of Sherlock.  Tortured because of Sherlock.  Beaten because of Sherlock.  Raped because of Sherlock.  Broken because of Sherlock.  It was all because of Sherlock, so it could only be Sherlock’s fault.  He may not have held the blade, but it was like he had.  Sherlock standing over him, blade in his hand as he bent over to press it into John’s skin, smiling as the blood welled to the surface and rolled down his chest.  H felt sick at the image.  Sherlock was nothing like that, he wasn’t sick or unfeeling, the sociopath he clamed to be.  John wished he could take the words back, but now they were out in the air and he could only watch as confusion, anger, fear, and finally utter defeat flicker over the Sherlock’s face.  He stood, turned, and left robotically without another word.

Immediately, the medical personnel were on him, hands pulling him up and he tried to pull away from their gripping fingers, waiting for the blows even though he knew they would never come, as they just moved him steadily back to his bed.  They were pulling his shirt back on and pushing him until he fell back onto the mattress.  Words were spoken, to others and to him, but he wasn’t listening, too focused on what Sherlock’s face had looked like at that moment, like someone who had given up.  Like he had when he had returned from the war, shot and thinking he could do nothing anymore.  A needle slid into his vein, but he hardly felt it, didn’t even listen to the words murmured to him.  Sherlock’s face had looked like one who was done with the world, he had nothing else to live for.  He blinked at the revelation and found himself alone in his room.  How long had be been like that and how long had it been since Sherlock had left?

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked down at the offending IV reattached to his arm.  The drip had just barely started, so he couldn’t have been alone for long.  He ripped the thing out of his arm and reached for his cane.  It wasn’t where he usually stashed it.  Glancing around, he finally spotted it across the room by the bathroom, forgotten.  He stood on shaky feet and after getting his balance, decided he didn’t need it.  He could hold onto the wall and other things on his way.  He knew exactly where to go.  Already he could feel the drug moving through his system, pulling at his eyelids as he slid through his door and out into the hallway.  He moved quickly, at least as quickly as he could, and with purpose.

He slammed through the first door with no hesitation and began his journey upward.  To the roof.  It may not be St. Barts, but it was close enough.  He was stumbling more as he made his way up, stooping a few times to push off the next stair with his right hand.  He felt like a small child toddling up the steps on their own for the first time, still partially crawling some of the way because that was all they knew.  He had to stop at the next landing, leaning heavily against the sign of what floor he was one, but he didn’t have much time to rest, pushing himself off and continuing on his way up.  When he finally slammed through the roof door, he was as weak as a leaf and felt ready to be picked up by the wind.  It was raining, he hadn’t noticed that earlier, but now it was undeniable as fat drops landed on his face, rolling into his eyes.

He blinked to clear them and found himself staring at nothing.  There was no one up there.  For a second he wondered if he had been wrong, that Sherlock had merely done as he had asked and left, maybe gone home.  The next second, he panicked, ice gripping at his blood.  Had Sherlock already done it?  Already jumped… again?  He almost collapsed at the thought, stumbling forward further into the downpour.  He almost didn’t hear it over the rain, but he turned instinctively toward the sound that sounded almost like his-

“John?”

Relief blew through him as he spotted Sherlock’s familiar lanky form on the opposite side of the roof, dangerously too close to the edge.  He moved forward, lethargy forgotten and injuries be damned.  He was seething now, jaw clenched with teeth grinding against each other.  He was close enough he could see the fear in Sherlock’s eye now, the man taking another step backward towards the edge of the roof and the long fall behind it.

“What?  You going to step off again while I watch.  Hardly seems right, don’t you think?  Plus, what’s going to stop me from walking off the roof right after you?”

Sherlock seemed more horrified at the prospect of John taking his own life than him taking his own.  But he saw guilt shroud the man and he took a step forward, moving away from the edge.

“You selfish, bloody git.  I don’t know why I keep you in my life.  All you do is think of yourself.”

“That’s what I’m trying to fix.”

“Fix?  Fix what!”

“If I had actually died that day, none of this would have happened.  But I was selfish and tried to trick them, to stay alive.  I wanted to be smarter than everyone just one last time.  I shouldn’t have.  I should have died that day and everything would have been better.”

“Better?  Better is you alive and breathing, Sherlock!”

“Better is you alive and well, unharmed and unhurt,” he was eyeing the drop again, feet scuffling against the rooftop.

“Well what good is you dying going to do now?  There’s no point in you dying other than wanting an award for being a selfish bastard because you’re oh so important.”

“I’m not important!”  Sherlock screamed, actually losing his composure completely, setting himself loose as he turned to look at John, rain streaming down his- no, those were tears.  Sherlock Holmes was actually crying, tears leaking down his cheeks and nose, “I’m unimportant when compared to you, John Hamish Watson.”

That was a confession if John had ever heard one, though he wasn’t quite sure what kind of confession it was, friendship or something more.  He didn’t ask, didn’t really have time for it as his legs were slowly turning into rubber.

“Oh, there go my legs,” John said, his words slurred, and Sherlock moved forward at just the right moment, catching him as his limbs finally gave out and he drooped into Sherlock’s arms, the drug finally taking full effect and John gave into the comfort of his warmth.

“Are you okay?”  Sherlock asked and for a brief moment John could smell chlorine but another inhale and it was just rain.

“They gave me some drugs to help me sleep.  I’m fine,” he shuffled closer, eyes closed, and trying to use Sherlock as a makeshift shelter from the rain.  He felt hands on him, but these were nice and warm, pulling him toward warmth and lifted up.  He let his head fall against Sherlock’s shoulder, the rain the only think keeping him awake at the moment, cold against his skin.  There was the squeak of the door opening and suddenly they were out of the rain and back into the warmth of the building, slowly climbing back down into the lower floors.

“Sherlock?”  He managed to murmur and he heard the man grunt in confirmation that he had heard him, “Don't do that again.  For me.”

“I won’t.”

If John had been more awake, he would have asked for a promise of some sort, but he couldn’t keep himself conscious a moment longer and finally sank down into the waiting sleep.

Mycroft was waiting in the room, along with a nurse, when Sherlock returned with a sleeping John in his arms.  Sherlock shot his older brother a glare as he set John down as though afraid he would break him.  The nurse immediately darted forward to change John’s clothes and reattach the IV.  He recognized her as the one who had helped John removed his bandages and he was about to snap at her out of anger when Mycroft’s fingers circled around Sherlock’s bicep, clamping down as if they were made of steel as he steered his brother from the room.  It wasn’t until they were at the small waiting room that Mycroft let him go.  Sherlock moved away, brushing off his arm as through there was dirt left there.

“You’re soaking wet.  Please tell me you weren’t going to do what I think you were.”

“Why tell you what you already know?”

“And this time-?”

“It would have been permanent,” he turned and left, his coat growing heavy with the added weight of the water soaked into the materials.  He heard Mycroft sigh and the undeniable shuffle of fabric as he pulled his phone out of his pocket, most likely telling his men to keep a more watchful eye on Sherlock until further notice.  It was unnecessary, but there was nothing Sherlock could say that would change Mycroft’s mind.  He reached into his pocket, felling his fingers slide over his cellphone, but he had no one to call.  All he wanted was a cigarette.  John wouldn’t have approved, but he seriously doubted he and John would be in contact for much longer.  The only reason the man truly put up with him at the moment was because he was stuck in his hospital bed until Mycroft let him loose again.

John would move out, find his own place on the other side of the city, or maybe elsewhere altogether, and that would be the end of that.  Sherlock’s first and only friendship, lost because he couldn’t stay dead.  He really was a selfish, bloody git.  The stupidest man he knew, lower than Anderson, even.  Ask him how much tar was in the cigarettes he was currently buying, and he could tell you after his first puff on the stick, but ask him about emotions and he could only tell you the chemical reactions behind each one, nothing personal, always insensitive.  That was what John was for.  No, John was for more than that.  John was more than just his blogger.

He lit a cigarette and brought it to his lips, dragging on it heavily before letting his breath out in a swirl of smoke, emptying his lungs of the harmful material.  He didn’t contemplate on the white stick, just kept walking, not caring what grade it was, or trying to deduce the private life of the worker behind the machines by the precision of the roll.  He had probably never been right on those.  Too much room for errors when bringing machines into account.  But it had been fun, bringing his mind off the smoky haze.  He didn’t need that now, never would need it again in his life, not that he ever would.  He paused at the doorway to 221B before slipping his key into the doorknob and letting himself inside.

It was quiet inside, though it had been for quite a while, but it now it felt like it had descended upon the house like a heavy cloud, persistent and not easy to be rid of.  He wondered if this was what people considered to be depression.  It definitely felt depressing as he practically dragged his feet up the stairs, not bothering to count the steps as he usual did.  His violin was where he had left it and he reached for it with his free hand, taking one last breath on the cigarette before cracking a window and throwing the butt out the window.

He hadn’t composed a piece on his violin in a while.  Now felt a good a time as any to do so.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /screams into oblivion  
> I finally got this written out. Oh my god, I had been in a big writing slump, but, thanks to my Tumblr followers, I have managed to resurface. I just hope it doesn't pull me back under.  
> This is the start of John's recovery, but is in no way the end of his troubles.

John never saw Sherlock again at the hospital, the man had simply disappeared back into his old life, and Mycroft only allowed him to be released from the hospital when most of his injuries had been healed, despite his weak protests.  He had spent the last few weeks healing up, avoiding mirrors, and trying to act normal when visitors came.  Lestrade was the only one he actually looked forward to seeing, despite some of the news he brought with him.  He had been the one to let John know that Mikey and David were dead, killed by Sherlock.  Sebastian was a different matter.  He was still out there, uninjured and dangerous.  Lestrade said he’d have a police officer drive by John’s flat every hour or so when he was finally released.  It seemed as though the man expected him to move back in with Sherlock and John didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.

During his time at the hospital, John had started to figure out just what scared him and what didn’t.  The latter list was getting shorter by the day and he felt his heart sinking in his chest as he realized just how much the Sebastian and the two other men had damaged him.  He didn’t like being naked, even for an examination, and felt better with even just a pair of pants on.  He was terrified to look in a mirror now, to see the words written into his skin.  Water scared him, washing wise.  Drinking was fine, but getting under a spray of water made his whole body shake.  The nurses took to giving him sponge baths, but he was scared of what would happen when he left, ashamed that he would have to continue to do that on his own instead of acting like a normal person and –

He wasn’t normal, though.  Hadn’t been since he had gotten back from the war.  But now he couldn't even recognize himself.  These past few weeks should have been like hell to him, cooped up inside a hospital room with nothing by crap telly on.  But it was getting out into the world that terrified him, because in here he felt safe, but out there it was like going back into the jaws of Afghanistan, parched air, stinging sand, biting pain.  Sebastian just made it worse.  He didn't doubt that Lestrade would be true on his word and that Mycroft would set up his own surveillance as well, but that hadn’t done him much good before, having been kidnapped on multiple occasions.  But, his attention was probably mostly on Sherlock, his brother, not some man who used to be his brother’s flat mate.  He could understand that a bit.

But, after weeks, he was being kicked out of the hospital with a bill of good health.  Now he just had to find a place to live.  He finally asked Greg to help him gather his stuff and had to look away from the look of pity on the man’s face when he realized that he was actually going to leave Sherlock after everything.  But it was because of everything that he was leaving.  It was for the best.  For both of them.  He told himself that almost hourly.  But Greg did as he was asked without much fuss and boxed up John’s few things and brought them to his own apartment, where he let John stay the first night.  It wasn’t pretty.  And John was sure there was much screaming involved as he woke up from his nightmare covered in a sheet of cold sweat.

He went out and found a dusty, crumbling place the next day, paying for the bedroom on the spot with cash and moved in within the hour.  Greg shook his hand goodbye, promising he would check in on him if John wanted to.  John said that would be great, but mentally he was already deleting everyone from his old life off his phone.  He couldn’t stand the aura of pity that surrounded all of them and he wasn’t sure how long he would be able to keep this place, his nightmares still clinging to him like a disease that was hard to shake.  They came upon him quicker and fiercer than those brought by the war and left him a mess of shaking limbs.  But he never cried, not anymore.

He lost the place a little over a week later.  Too many noise complaints.  He was just glad he got some of his money back as he climbed into a cab with his belongings.  The next place fared just as well and the place after he lost even sooner.  He wondered if he was breaking some records with how quickly he was being kicked out of buildings and he was pretty sure they were telling their friends not to let him into their places.  And that was how John found himself on the opposite side of London, miles away from everything that had been familiar to him.  Stuck to squatting in dirty, piss stained rooms with barely enough room for him to walk around with his returned limp.  He hadn’t noticed it at first, it had snuck up on him until it could no longer be pushed to the side and he had to get a cane again.

And that was how Mycroft found him months later, just appearing in his room after he had gone out to find a job at any place he could.  No one wanted him, he had come to realize.  No one was willing to let a crazy, damaged man work at their business.  They didn’t want any trouble, they said, and after the fifth place, John had to calm himself before he flipped a table, which is exactly what they expected to him.  And now he was barely scraping by, his funds running low and it was like the older Holmes could smell the financial trouble John was in and had sat down in his chair as though he had nowhere else to be, though he look startlingly out of place with his fancy clothes clashing against the peeling wallpaper.

“Hello John,” his ever present umbrella was by his side even though the sky out there was clear with not cloud in sight.  John leaned against his cane and glared at the man.  “How are you getting along?  I’ve noticed you’re not going to your therapy sessions and your moving is happening more and more frequently.  I just can’t help but wonder if they are tied together in some way.”

“Piss off, Mycroft,” He turned to rummage through his cupboards for whatever he could make for lunch.  Mycroft didn’t budge.

“You haven’t cut your hair since you returned, same with a proper shower.  You think you’ll get used to living this way, that some day life will turn around for you.  Let me tell you know, Dr. Watson, that is not going to happen.”

“Are you sure?  Don’t you have some magic stick that you can wave to make all that go away.”

“I can’t take away your nightmares, Dr. Watson.  Only you can do that.”

“Well I’m not going to therapy, so you can just drop that.  Now what purpose do you have here?”

“Right to the point, as always.  I’m here today with a proposition.  A business plan, if you may.”  John stayed quiet, his back to Mycroft.  “Move back in with Sherlock.”

“No.”

He continued as though John hadn’t said anything, “I’ll pay your rent if it comes to that.  You’ll be more comfortable in a familiar place and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson are quite used to your nightmares by now if that’s what you’re scared about.”

“That’s not even close to what I care about.  I can’t see Sherlock.  I just can’t.”  On reflex, he reached up to trace his hand over the words in his skin, fingers brushing over his jumper.

“Sherlock’ is at a danger point right now and I’ve had to make sure all the people who usually supply his drugs are monitored.  Of course, that will in no way stop him from getting what you want.  I need your help, John.”

“Hold on a second, can you repeat that?  I need to set it as my ringtone for you.”

“This is a serious matter, John.”

“For you, maybe, but Sherlock and I aren’t in the same social circle anymore.  He’s just another stranger on the street to me now,” He moved to open the door, “Now please leave.”

Mycroft stared at him a moment longer before getting up.  He paused in the doorway, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a key, which he then placed on the counter.  He gave it one finally tap before he excited the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.  John stared at the key, having recognized it instantly.  He had carried it around for years, after all.  His key to 221B Baker Street.  He considered throwing it away, but found himself sliding it into his pocket without reason.  Maybe he could find a way to give it back, make it easier for Mrs. Hudson if she got another tenant.  At least that was what he tried to tell himself.  He gave up on trying to find food in his flat and left to eat at the burger place down the street.  He couldn’t afford anything better nowadays.

Two places later and the key in John’s pocket was beginning to get heavier, pulling him.  He brought it out regularly, just to remind himself it was there, running his hands over the familiar ridges of the metal key.  As he packed up from the next place after that, he almost made himself leave the key on the counter behind him, but instead he went out and bought a metal beaded ball chain necklace so he could wear it around his neck.  It seemed to burn a hole into his chest, but he kept it there anyway even if it reminded him of the ring of power, getting heavier every day he kept it strung around his neck.  And so, after the next place, he found himself climbing into a cab and giving out a familiar address.

He didn’t know what he was doing.  For all he knew, Sherlock had already found someone else who could tolerate him as much as, or even more than John had.  But he went anyway, his things shoved into one back and thrown over his shoulder.  And when he paid the cab with what little cash he had left and found himself back in front of the building, he began to wonder if he was making a serious mistake.  Busy afternoon crowds pushed past him as though he didn’t exist and finally he pulled his necklace off and stuck the key into the lock.  He entered silently.  The whole building seemed to be silent.  Mrs. Hudson was probably elsewhere, while Sherlock could have been at a case.  He almost turned to leave when he heard a crash from upstairs.

His instincts kicked in and suddenly his limp was gone, cane left leaning against the wall as he ran up the stairs.  The door to the flat was open, as usual, and he immediately saw Sherlock flat on the floor, completely passed out.  John scrambled to turn him onto his back so he could look the man over more thoroughly, fingers running over his head to check for blood and injuries.  Luckily there seemed to be only a bump and upon John’s inspection of the inside of his arm, he knew they real cause.  Track marks were visible on the inside of Sherlock’s arm, fresh.  Whatever Mycroft had done, it obviously hadn’t worked.  Sherlock murmured and rolled toward John, hand reaching out to grip John’s jumper.

With a sigh, John pried his fingers away, lifted the taller man up, and practically dragged him back to his room.  He flopped down on the bed when John let go of him and John had a moment of déjà vu before he shook away the memories and pushed back the duvet to get Sherlock underneath it.  The man his back to John, smushing his face into his pillow and nuzzled against the material, but when John tried to move away again, Sherlock’s eyes sprang open and his hand shot out, grabbing onto John’s wrist.  John was terrified at the initial movement, but as soon as he saw the crazed, drugged out look on Sherlock’s face, crinkled up to blink back tears, he relaxed into Sherlock’s hold.

“Please don’t leave me, John.  I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry,” his voice was fading again, eyes drooping, “John, please… sorry…”  His hold dropped and his breathing even out again, drifting back to sleep and leaving John standing over him, his heart still beating fast in his chest.  He smoothed a hand down his jumper to try and calm himself before he took a deep breath and walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.  Now he actually took in the rooms in front of him.  They were a mess.  He moved to the fridge and opened it, closing it almost immediately as soon as he saw the body part collection Sherlock had been stocking up on.  If he actually did move back in, as crazy as that sounded to him, he had his work cut out for him.  He might as well stop on the living room.

* * *

 

Someone was screaming.  Sherlock snapped awake immediately as the sound started, sitting up in… his bed?  How did he get in his bed?  Oh, right, someone was screaming.  He lurched up and almost fell over again as the world spun in front of his eyes, throwing out his arms to regain his balance and stumbling to the door.  As he placed his hand on the knob, there was a pause and Sherlock took the moment of quiet to learn everything he could about the screams.  The last time he had heard ones like these had been- no, that was impossible.  But someone had put him into bed.  He ran out to the living room and stopped when he saw John on his couch, screams gone.  He was clenching his jaw together, his neck tipped back, and hands drawn up over his head, as though he was back in that room, under their mercy.

Sherlock approached with caution, not wanting to scare John even more than he already was.  He reached out hesitantly, placing his hand on John’s cheek, instantly he stiffened even more, a cry of pain coming out of his mouth.  He brought his hand up further, letting it rest on John’s hair.  It was getting shaggy, nowhere near the military cropped length he had it at when the two of them had met.  It also was dirty, not looked after well.  He looked like he had aged ten years over a course of several months.  If anything, he looked worse than he had the last time Sherlock had seen him at the hospital.  Running his fingers through John’s hair, he watched, amazed, as the man seemed to relax under his fingertips, arms dropping back down onto the arm of the sofa, head turned to the side now.  He stirred, getting into a better position, but otherwise didn’t wake up.

He stared down at his sleeping friend – did John even consider him that anymore? – and wondered if there was any other way to help him sleep more comfortably that didn’t require him to sit here, petting him for hours.  He spotted his violin where he had placed it, now under a mess of papers, and dug it out.  Sitting down in his chair, he placed the violin under his chin and began to play.  It was a low, quiet tune so as to not awaken John and he let himself lose himself in the music, closing his eyes to let the tune wash over him.

Before he knew it, hours had passed and when he opened his eyes John was gone and his music screeched to a stop.  Had it all been a cruel hallucination brought on by the drugs?  He frowned, bring his violin down to rest it on his legs.  A clatter in the kitchen got his attention and he turned quickly to see John trying to make tea.  Trying the key word.  He seemed to be staring at the kitchen sink faucet as it poured water out, kettle already overflowing.  And yet he continued to stare.  Sherlock moved behind him and turned it off and immediately John jumped away, his hip slamming into the side of the counter.

“Sorry.  I just don’t like it when people are behind me,” he looked almost ashamed to meet Sherlock’s eyes, choosing instead to look down at his hands as he picked at dirt under his nails.  Sherlock grabbed the kettle and emptied out most of the water, placing it on the stove when there was enough.  He got out two relatively clean mugs, running them under warm water before setting them aside.  Finally, he stopped to look at John, who still wasn’t meeting his eye.

“John, what are you doing here?  Is this something Mycroft put you up to?”

John visibly flinched, “I should go.  This was a stupid idea.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I just-“

Sherlock held up a hand, letting it hover in front of John, “What were you thinking?”

“That I could move back in,” his voice was barely heard, even in the quiet flat, “I keep getting kicked out of my places.  I’ve lost count of how many places by now.”

“I’m guessing you haven’t lost count of how many showers you’ve taken, have you?”  He was pleased when he got a small chuckle out of John for his efforts.

“No, definitely not.  Me and water… we don’t really get along anymore,” he tried to smile, but it wasn’t a John smile.  There was nothing behind it; he was just trying to make a face people usually pulled.

“You can still drink tea, though, I see.”

“I don’t think I’d survive without at least a cup of tea a day.  I run on tea, Sherlock.  It was just easier for me to prepare it for one person.”

The kettle began to whistle, so Sherlock removed it from the heat, pushing the mugs over toward John, who raised his eyebrow in a ‘really?’ expression.

“I never could make tea like you.  I haven’t drunken much, only a few cups now and again that Mrs. Hudson made me.  She’s apparently still not my housekeeper.”

Sherlock smiled and John smiled back, making the tea just as he always did, but when Sherlock reached for his, John moved them away and grabbed his arm.  He ran his fingers over the track marks.

“You’ve got to stop.”

“I know,” he tried to pull his arm back.

“Please.  Stop.”

“The bedroom upstairs is exactly the way you left it.  I haven’t touched it, haven’t even brought myself to set foot in there since you left.  I thought that if I did, I would ruin something, and that would make it so you never came back home.  So, I’ll stop, but only if you promise to stay.”

John looked up at him with the saddest eyes and Sherlock wished he could take back the ultimatum, but now it was out there in the air.

“I scream.”  John said suddenly and Sherlock blinked at the sudden change of subject and was about to tell him that he knew, when John continued, “I scream when I have nightmares and am terrified of almost everything.  Would that bother you?  Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

Sherlock let a genuine smile spread on his face, “Those don’t bother me at all.  Now would you hand me my tea or do I have to wrestle it from you?”

John smiled back, a real one this time, and passed the tea over.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait! I got swamped with school and finals and even after school ended and summer began I found myself in a writing slump. I'm still not completely happy with this chapter, but I suppose it will have to do as it's what my brain and fingers decided to write.
> 
> Again, sorry for the wait.

The next few weeks passed with them trying to move and rearrange their lives to leave room for the other to seep into as they had in the past.  John’s nightmares were less severe, but he figured it was merely because he was back in a familiar place.  They wouldn’t stop completely, just like those left from the war, and he would have nights worse than others.  He often heard Sherlock playing his violin at night, and wondered if the man ever got any sleep, because he would fall asleep to the violin and wake up to Sherlock sprawled across the sofa in his mind palace pose.

Tea duty was up to John again, and he gratefully fell back into his usual routine, finding comfort in the usual, mundane tasks.  Sherlock kept his distance, making his movements easily seen and exaggerated, so as to not scare John with sudden movement.  He didn’t ridicule or yell at John for the many things that probably irritated him.  These ranged from John’s irrational fear of water – tea took twice as long to make now and his showers were a long ordeal – to his refusal to join on any of the cases Sherlock received from Lestrade and private clients – John hid in his room when visitors were over – now that the detective had come back from the dead publicly.

But today was quiet, and John was settling back with one of the books he hadn’t been able to finish before, well, everything, including the fall.  Sherlock was off in the kitchen checking what type of acid ate away at flesh more effectively.  He said it was for a case, but John didn’t believe him, as whenever he glanced over at the younger man, he was glaring at the arm as though it had done something unthinkable, so John just assumed that was Moran’s arm Sherlock was pretending he was currently dissolving with assorted acids.

Sherlock suddenly snapped to attention, “What do you want?  Stop looking over here.”

John turned back to his book, “Right.  Sorry.  I just couldn’t help but notice the murderous expression you were wearing while experimenting on that arm.  Did the owner of that limb insult you while they were alive?”

“No.  Nothing like that.”  He set down the equipment and stared at it for a while, before glancing over at John’s back.  He opened his mouth to say something to the man when his phone began to vibrate across the counter.  He let out whatever he was going to say in a sigh and picked up the phone.

“Lestrade has a case for me,” Sherlock licked his lips, nervous to ask, “Do you want to come with me?”

“No,” came John’s immediate answer.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Just this once?”

“No.”  John was getting more agitated now, Sherlock could tell by the way he gripped onto his book, like he wanted to rip it in half.

“Please?”

“No, Sherlock.”

“It’s not even that bloody of a murder, apparently.”

“I’m not going.”

“What if I get kidnapped and need help?”

John turned toward him, “Then you can save your own bloody arse.  I’m not going on this case and I may never go on another one with you.  So piss off.”

The silence was almost deafening as the two stared at each other, John’s expression was that of anger, while Sherlock’s was of shock.  Finally he managed to slip his mask back on and he was the first to breath eye contact.

“Right.  Right, of course.  Sorry for trying.”  He stood up and moved the arm into the fridge, then grabbed his phone, putting that into his pocket.

“Sherlock, just a second… I didn’t-“  John tried, but Sherlock cut him off.

“Yes, you did.  Don’t try to take back your words because that’s impossible to do.”  He grabbed his coat and scarf and started down the stairs, quickly taking them two at a time.  John stood up, going toward the door.

“Sherlock, wait.  If I go with you-“

“I don’t want you to come with me!”  The front door slammed shut and that was the end of that.  John stood in the doorway for a while, staring down the stairs as though he was waiting for Sherlock to come back, but he knew when the detective was in this kind of mood, he wouldn’t come back and when he did, he would be in the same mood he left in.  He finally moved, collapsing on the couch, his head tilted against the back of the couch so he stared up at the ceiling.  His phone vibrated where he had left it, buzzing against the table.  Quickly, he got up, hoping it would be Sherlock, but it was an unknown number.  Interested, he opened his phone and saw the text only held an address.   Mycroft.  Of course.  He always loved muddling in their affairs.

For a minute he wondered if he should stay home, let Mycroft be wrong for once, that he wouldn’t follow after Sherlock, but he knew that wasn’t going to be the case this time and grabbed his jacket with a sigh.  He wasn’t sure if he was going to regret this yet or not, but he figured he should at least give it a try.  He locked the flat behind him and made his way down the stairs, hurrying past Mrs. Hudson’s door so she wouldn’t be able to catch him.  He felt awful doing it, avoiding her, but she babied him too much now, always asking him if he wanted anything or was feeling okay.  It was as if her repeated saying that she wasn’t their housekeeper had been thrown out of the window upon his return to Baker Street.  He didn’t like it, being babied.  But he wasn’t able to tell her that.  Luckily, Sherlock usually shooed her away, taking notice of the discomfort on John’s face, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

The cab ride was quick and he got out a block before the crime scene, slowly walking toward the yellow tape with a slight limp.  Others were gathered around, trying to see the body while the police pushed them back.  He stopped behind them, wanting to go not further.  He bowed his head and shut his eyes, getting lost in the sounds of the city when someone calling his name snapped him out of it.  He looked up to see the crowd had parted, looking back at him and Lestrade was holding the yellow banner up, looking at him.  There were too many eyes.  He took a step back, swallowing and he was sure his eyes were filled with fear, because Lestrade’s expression changed immediately and he stepped out toward John, the crowd refilling in the space, eyes forward again.

“Hey,” Lestrade said, coming to stand a safe distance from John, “Glad to see you and Sherlock are back together.  He was a wreck without you, you know.”  He glanced back at the house just in time to see a new forensic worker burst out, crying.  He sighed, “And he still is, it seems.  He likes it when you come to crime scenes with him.  Likes showing off to someone, I suppose.”

“It takes a lot to impress me now.  He can show off all he wants, but I’ve seen it all.”  John shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, eyes following the crying woman.  “I bet her husband was cheating on her.”

“What?  You can tell?”  Lestrade asked, looking back at him.

“No.  But that’s usually the story, isn’t it?  She would have no reason to cry if it was her cheating, she would just be angry at Sherlock.”

Lestrade stared at him, “Right.  Of course.  Do you… want to go in?”

He shook his head, “No, I like my seat here just fine.”

“Okay.  I’ll just tell Sherlock you’re-“

“Don’t.  I plan to be gone by the time he comes out.”

“That won’t be long, mate.  And, just know this, if you ever need anytime away from Sherlock, or whatever, just call me up and we can go to a pub, drink a few beers, and relax, okay?”

John gave a small nod and gave the best smile he could, though he knew Lestrade could see right through it all.  He knew John wouldn’t call.  He squeezed John’s shoulder, then slipped back through the crowd to do his job.  John waited a few more minutes, then turned and left, heading back to get a cab home.  But the time Sherlock came back, half an hour after him, he was sitting in his chair again, reading his book.  He could feel the detective’s gaze on him, taking everything in and immediately he knew Sherlock was well aware of where he had been.  He heard him take in a breath, most likely to begin rattling off, but then there was the click of teeth as he closed his mouth, followed by the rustling of his coat as he unbuttoned it and pulled it off.

“How is the book?”  He asked while toeing off his shoes.

“Quiet interesting,” John said, sparing a glance over his shoulder while he flipped the page, “But not something that would hold your interest.”

“Of course.  A lot of things don’t hold my interest.”  He pulled the arm back out of the fridge and that was that.  Sherlock didn’t say a thing, didn’t ask why John had come to the crime scene after all that.  They just fell back into comfortable, companionable silence.

It continued like this for a while.  Sherlock would leave to a crime scene, no longer bother to ask John if he would like to come with him, and a text from Mycroft would follow a minute after Sherlock’s departure.  He would go to the crime scene, stay at a distance, and leave before Sherlock saw him.  But Sherlock always knew he was there.  He could tell by the way no one came crying out of the crime scene and by the way he returned home, happy even after a case where they didn’t manage to catch the killer.  But he was just happy John was there, in someway, and John was happy that he could make Sherlock smile at him that way again.  No one else saw that smile, so far as he knew.  He was it’s only viewer and it made it that much more special.

It was a smile that always started in the eyes.  They would snap up, focused and sharp, meeting John’s and they would be so alive.  John never knew what color his eyes would be usually, but they always seemed to be a pale blue when he smiled.  The smile would then start pulling at his lips, often accompanied by a small chuckle bubbling up in Sherlock’s throat, then, finally.  The smile grew, become a grin or unfiltered glee, meant only for John to see.  It was always contagious, John smiling right back at the detective, equally pleased, even if he didn’t know what that certain smile was for that day.  He just knew that Sherlock was alive and happy again.  And if Sherlock was happy, then John was happy.  That was all that mattered.

This day started just like any other day with a case.  Sherlock ran off, a text followed, and John kept his distance.  It wasn’t the same as before the fall, but it was working.  And then the skies decided to have another plan.  It was almost always overcast in London, but John’s luck had been high so far and it had never rained while he was outside of the flat.  The noticed the smell first, then felt the first drop, hitting him on the cheek.  He stiffened immediately and the second drop that hit him on the forehead sent a shiver a terror down his spine.  He turned stiffly, looking for a place to take cover because there was no way he was going to make it back to the main road and get a cab in time.  That only left one option and now he had to choose the lesser of two evils.  He made his way to the yellow tape.

A police officer held him back and though he tried to argue his way back, the man wouldn’t budge.  He was about two seconds from slamming the man down and putting him into a hold when he saw a familiar head of hair amongst the police officers.  While she was the last person he wanted to see or speak to, it was that or get arrested for assaulting a police officer.

“Donovan!”  He called out and she turned, looking for who called her name.  She walked over, slowly at first, until she figured out what was going on.  She was smart compared to others on the force, he had to give her that.  Immediately she waved for the police officer to let John through and he dashed by just as the rain started coming down more.  He didn’t make it to the door, though.  The next thing he knew, Donovan was grabbing him and pushing into the back of a police car, throwing a dry shock blanket over him.  She opened the front door, sweeping her wet hair out of her face, and turned on the radio, almost full volume.

“Do you want me to go get him?”  She asked, her voice barely audible over the music.  He shook his head.  There was no point in pulling Sherlock out now, while he was solving a case.  Besides, if he hadn’t noticed the rain on his own, then there was no way Donovan would get through to him.  He bowed his head, watching rain drip from his hair.  He shut his eyes, not wanting to watch it any longer, and brushed his hand through his hair, trying to dry it a bit.  Pulling the blanket up over his head, he heard Donovan leave, hearing nothing more but the loud music and the soft beat of rain against the metal of the car.  He put his hands over his ears and shuddered.

* * *

 

Sherlock was crouching next to a dead body, side of his face pressed against the cold tile floor as he stared the man into his glazed eyes.  There was a faint trace of powder on his upper lip.  Missed, of course, by the ever incompetent Anderson.  He sat back on his heels and lifted up the collar of the man’s coat, staring at the strange markings on his neck.  He was almost completely in his deducing mode when Anderson said something.  Of course it was Anderson.  It was always Anderson.  He opened his mouth to tell the man to leave, as he was of no more use to anyone in this room or city when his brain caught up with his mouth and he realized what Anderson had said.

“God, it’s really coming down outside now.”

He stood up quickly and Lestrade looked at him in shock, “Done already, Sherlock?  I at least thought this certain case was a-“

“It’s raining?”

“Um, yes.  Has been for the past five minutes.”

He turned, coat swirling behind him and made for the exit.

“Sherlock, wait!  Who did it?”

“Figure it out on your own for once,” he growled, pushing his way down the stairs.  He glanced out the front window, hoping for once that Anderson was wrong.  But he hadn’t.  It was pouring outside.  The crowd had left now, fleeing to the comfort of their own homes and a quick scan of the area told him John was not there.  Maybe he had gone home.  Or maybe not.  He stepped out into the pouring rain, getting soaked immediately, his curly hair becoming plastered to his skull.  He blinked, trying to get the water out of his eyes as he moved forward.

“Sherlock!”  Sally’s voice.  No name calling today.  So it was serious.  John.  He moved toward her immediately.

“Where is he?”

“In Lestrade’s squad car.  I-“

But he stopped listening to her, dashing over to the car and throwing open the door.  He paused for only a moment, taking in John’s huddled form.  It broke him to see John this way, so small and vulnerable and he could hear his voice in the back of his mind asking him if he was an angel come to take him away.  He licked his lips, readying himself, and scooted in next to John, closing the door behind him.

* * *

 

It was still raining.  He could hear its persistent beat no matter how high the music was turned or how hard he pressed his hands against his ears, even when he felt as though he was on the verge of crushing his own skull with his own hands.  It felt as though the rain was beating against his very skull, becoming Moran’s voice, laughing at him in the sound of the rain.  The water leaking from his hair became Moran’s hand on his scalp and he felt his breathing start to become ragged and sharp, his body not getting enough oxygen from each intake of air.

The rain suddenly got louder and he whimpered, nails clawing at his scalp and a flurry of movement to his left made him jerk away, pressing up against the door of the car with wide eyes as he looked at the new addition to the vehicle.  He felt himself relax a bit as he saw Sherlock, but the sound of the rain was still deafening to him.  Sherlock reached behind him, pulling the door closed and the sound lessened, letting him loosen his hands.  Sherlock reached out for him and he moved forward on instinct, finding himself drawn to Sherlock’s chest by the man’s arm, side of his face pressed against Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock was talking to him, he realized after a while, soothing words that vibrated through his chest.  Slowly, John let the hand that was over his ear next to Sherlock drop, deciding to just press up to Sherlock instead.  He shut his eyes, listening to the beat of Sherlock’s heart and attempted to match his own rapidly beating heart to his.  He slowed down his breathing, taking relaxing breaths.  He felt one of Sherlock’s hands rubbing at John’s back and he relaxed even further as he tilted his head, inhaling Sherlock’s familiar scent.

“Thank you,” he mumbled against Sherlock and felt the man nod in reply.

The front door of the car opened, jerking John out of his calm state and Lestrade quickly got in, closing the door behind him.  He winced at the music, reaching over to lower the volume, but then thought better of it.

“Sorry, forgot about the, um… water issue.  We’ll get this figured out on our own, Sherlock.  But, in the case that we don’t-“

“I’ll text you the culprit if you don’t.”  Sherlock interrupted, his eyes only on John.

“Right.  Thanks.”  Lestrade scratched the back of his head, not sure what to do, “Do you guys want a ride home?”

“That would be preferable, yes.”  Sherlock said as John said, “No, we’re good.”

Sherlock looked at John in shock, “What do you mean by that?”

“I think as long as you stay by me, remind me where I am, and we have an umbrella we should be able to make it back to the road to get a cab.”

Sherlock looked ready to protest, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.  Lestrade looked between the two of them, then leaned over and opened the glove compartment, getting out an umbrella.  He passed it back and Sherlock grabbed it, looking at it as though it was a foreign object.

“Are you sure, John?”

“I’m sure.”

That was all he needed to reached behind him and open the door to the car.  John stiffened against Sherlock immediately, but a gentle coaxing from the taller man got him following after him.  Sherlock got out first, rain washing over him as he unfolded the umbrella.  He held it over the gap of the door and John slowly came out, hand reaching out to latch onto Sherlock’s free one on instinct, trying to find something solid and comforting to hold onto.  Sherlock said nothing, just made his hand more comfortable for himself.  He kicked the door closed behind them and the music was no longer a cover, the rain the only thing audible now.

Sherlock immediately saw a problem.  The umbrella was too small and John was nearly pressed up to his chest once more.  He backed out from under the umbrella and handed the handle to John, who hesitantly took it.  It was easier from there, just a small tug from Sherlock and John was following by his side, their hands still holding onto each other.  It was quiet.  For Sherlock, at least.  For John it was deafening and he wanted to close his eyes against it all, but he knew that would only make it worse.  He knew from experience.  Take away the vision and your mind will make its own.

Eventually they reached the street and Sherlock went to work with getting them a cab.  Most of them already had occupants, others trying to stay out of the soaking rain.  But a free one finally pulled to the side and Sherlock opened the door for John.  He closed the umbrella once John was inside the dry cab, then got in after him, telling the cabbie their address.  In the rainy silence, he looked over at John, who had his eyes trained on the floor of the cab.  He put his hand near John’s palm up in offering and John took it, grabbing onto his hand once more, gripping tightly to him.

When they got back to the flat, Sherlock paid the fare and had to let go of John’s hand to get out of the cab and step into the rain.  He worked to get the umbrella open as he got even more drenched.  Finally it snapped open and he held it up, holding his hand back out for John to let him know to come.  He slid across the seats and took Sherlock’s hand again, closing the door behind him.  He led John to the door, not bothering to hand the umbrella over this time and waited patiently while John pulled out his keys and went to work unlocking the door with shaking hands.  He finally got the key in the lock and twisted it, fumbling for the knob.  He pushed it open and the quickly got inside, Sherlock snapping the umbrella closed and slamming the door behind them.  He deposited the umbrella in the entrance way for the next time he saw Lestrade.

Mrs. Hudson came out of her room, ready to worry over John, but Sherlock said that they didn’t need tea or anything of the sort, and lead John upstairs, where he sat motionless, his eyes focused on nothing.  Sherlock moved quickly to the windows, not caring about the wet trail left in his wake, and closed all the curtains.  He looked at John for a moment, worried for his friend, then started peeling off his wet clothes, peeling off the layers.  He put his coat up to dry, wet shoes on the floor beneath it.  His blazer he unbuttoned and put up next to his coat.  Even his socks were wet and he peeled them off, taking them to his room.  He padded back out to John, who still hadn’t moved.

Cautiously, he reached out and began to lift the bottom of John’s jumper.  The reaction was instantaneous.  John reached down with lightning quick hands, gripping onto Sherlock’s wrists as though they were made of steel.

“Please don’t.  Not again.  Not today,” John’s voice was so soft that Sherlock hardly heard it at first and he stooped down to look him in the eye.  They were the eyes of a haunted man, much like the ones he had when awakening from a nightmare, only these were more lost, not clouded by sleep.

“It’s okay, John.” He murmured, trying to get him back, “It’s just me.  Your jumper’s soaked.  Let me take it off you.  John.”

John’s eyes met his and recognition began to break through.

“John?”  He asked, tilting his head, and felt John’s grip on him weaken.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.  It’s me.”

“Did I hurt you?  I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t.  And don’t apologize.  It’s okay, though.  Will you allow me to take your jumper off and fetch you a new one?”

He looked down at his hands, still gripping tightly to Sherlock’s wrists and loosened his fingers, then raised his hands up above his head.  Gingerly and with care, Sherlock pulled the jumper up and over John’s head, slipping it up his arms.

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

John reached out and stopped him as he walked by, hand on Sherlock’s elbow.  He backed up to look down at John, confused.

“I’m sorry I’m so weak.  I’m sorry I can’t go to cases with you.  I’m sorry I-“

“Don’t be sorry for anything.”

He looked up at Sherlock with a furrowed brow, looking ready to cry any second, “But I’m so weak now.  I’m not even like the ex-soldier I used to be.”

“You are the bravest man I have ever met, John Hamish Watson.”  John opened his mouth to argue, so Sherlock continued, sitting down on the arm of John’s chair and reaching out to run his hand through John’s hair and cup the back of his head.  “You survived almost two months with Moran.  And now you continue to survive despite the fact you no longer want to.”  John looked away.  “I’ve seen the way you look at your gun, John.  You probably looked at it the same way when you lived away from me.  You live, survive, and fight.  You conquer your fears, as you did today.  You climbed a part of the mountain, John.  There’s only a bit more to the top, getting up the steepest part, and then the path gets easier.  And I’ll be there for you every step of the way.  I’m not leaving you.”  He moved his hand, stroking his thumb softly over John’s cheek and he looked back up at him.

“Thank you.”

“No need,” Sherlock said softly and leaned over, kissing John on the forehead.  He heard John trying to stifle the beginning of his cries beneath him.  “I’ll go get you that dry jumper now because I don’t want you getting a cold.  I hear doctors are horrible patients and I’m a horrible caretaker.  It’s a bad combination.”  He heard John give a small laugh and smiled before moving away to see John had a smile now as well, the hint of tears gone.  Standing up, he left to go get another jumper from John’s room.  Preferably one that Sherlock actually liked this time around.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I finally got this out. I've been wrestling this thing for so long but here it finally is. I've been writing other stuff, finished my Wholock fic, but here we go. Thank god.
> 
> Sorry for the wait. Hopefully the next one will be out quicker.

John had taken to sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock.  Sherlock didn’t know when it happened, he just knew it happened gradually.  At first it was just because Sherlock had gone upstairs to comfort John after a nightmare, often just staying in his room after, to tired to go back downstairs unless he had just been doing an experiment in the kitchen.  He would even sleep sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed, John’s hand finding his head to make sure he was there throughout the night.  Sometimes, during the less extreme nights, Sherlock would lie on the bed next to John, keeping some distance between them, but leaving enough weight on the bed that John knew he was there.  Sometimes he would think he was someone different, calling him, more often than not, Mikey.  He spent those nights sitting on the floor instead.

Other nights when Sherlock didn’t hear John’s cries, and John would be the one to come down to Sherlock, climbing into the other side of the bed and falling back asleep.  Sherlock would wake up, initially confused as to why John was there, but then he would let the man sleep and slip away to cook them both a simple breakfast.  John would usually wake up to the smell, stumbling out into the kitchen, yawning and messing up his hair.  Other days were bad ones, when he didn’t want to come out, and Sherlock would put John’s meal on a tray and take it to him, letting him eat in bed.

And so it got to a point, after months, that John would just fall asleep in Sherlock’s bed from the beginning, sometimes close to him, other times almost falling off the other side.  But Sherlock didn’t mind.  He adapted to it and found he quite liked listening to the sound of John breathing, knowing his best friend was alive.  He actually slept more often now, instead of staying up for a day or more conducting experiments throughout the night.  He found he liked it best to be sleeping by John rather than doing other things.  John mentioned it and Sherlock just shrugged it off, saying his experiments lately were getting redundant, boring.  And then he would change the subject.  They fell into a routine of sorts until one morning, when it changed.

Now, Sherlock wasn’t going to say that he hated waking up with his friend pressed against him, arm thrown over his chest.  Because it was quite the opposite.  But he wasn’t sure if he should tell John that or if John should even wake up in this position.  So, gently, he moved John back to his side of the bed and got up to take a shower.  When he finally came out in his dirty pyjamas again, rubbing at his hair with his towel, John was sitting up in bed, yawning and stretching his arms above his head.

“Sleep well?”  He asked, something he said every morning and to which he usually got the reply ‘I slept okay’ or ‘No, not really’.

“Actually, yes.  I think that was the best night of sleep I’ve had in… well… in a long time.”  Sherlock stopped getting out his clothes, looking at John in shock while the man continued talking, “I wonder what was different about last night.  Think I’m finally starting to heal or whatever?”  He turned to look at Sherlock and he had to turn away, pretending to be busy.

“Maybe you found a new, good sleeping position.  And it would be good if you were getting better.”

“Yeah… that’d be really good.”

\--

After a simple breakfast that John cooked – Sherlock made the tea – and a change of clothes for John, the two of them found themselves sitting quietly in the living room.  John was watching Doctor Who – “It’s completely illogical,” Sherlock would mumble from the other side of the room, keeping one eye on the show anyway – while Sherlock sat in his chair, newspaper opened in front of him.  The sound of a car stopping in front of the flat, car door slamming after made him smile, pretending to be more interested in the newspaper and not the case that Lestrade was about to bring him.  John just rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s small smile, still watching his show.

Greg came up the stairs after a minute later, immediately speaking, “Sherlock, I’ve got a case for you.  Hello, John.”

John glanced over at him, giving him a wave, “Hey, Greg.”

“What’s the case about?  You can’t expect me to take it if it’s dull.”

“Of course not.  I think I know what you find interesting by now, don’t you think?”

“Says the man who brought me the case with the so called ‘crazy cat lady’.”

“That was one case, Sherlock!”  Sherlock just smirked.  “Anyway, this is a double homicide, locked doors from the inside, no forced entry.”

“Victims?”

“Husbands.  According to neighbors, they had just moved in, just got married, and apparently their families didn’t approve of the union.  Came by frequently to tell them so and got in numerous arguments with them.   As for cause of death, they were poisoned.  There’s evidence that one tried to revive the other, but, well, it’s like it was straight out of Romeo and Juliet.  There was poison on his lips and, as a result, the other one died.”

“Maybe the beginning of a Shakespearean murder spree?”  Sherlock asked, almost excited at the idea.

“Maybe, but we don’t know that unless they pull something similar and we want to catch the bastard before they get a chance.  Look, here’s the file.  Text me whether you want the case or not.  I have to go back to work.”  He handed out the file and Sherlock took it.

“I’ll take the case,” Sherlock said, setting the file on his lap.  “I’ll go around and see the crime scene later.  If I need to see the bodies, I’ll go talk to Molly.”

Both John and Lestrade looked at him in confusion and Greg finally said, “Well… okay, I guess.  I’ll see you around, then.  Bye, Sherlock, John,” and dashed out the door to his car again.

It was silent for a while as they listened to Greg’s car start up again and drive off, then finally John spoke up, “You’re taking it just like that?”

“Yes, because the police are incompetent morons and if I don’t help, the killer will go free,” Sherlock murmured, opening up the file to look through the reports and photos.  After a while, he frowned at them and John got up to look at what Sherlock was directing this certain facial expression toward.

“What is it?”  He asked, sitting on the armrest of Sherlock’s chair and was glad it seemed the two victims had seemed to die a death that didn’t include there being blood spattered over the walls.

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock said, moving onto the next photo.

“Just tell me.  Frowning at a photo isn’t going to help with anything.”

Sherlock refocused his frown on him, but sighed and rolled his eyes before he pulled the previous photo back to the front, which showed the two victims.  “It’s nothing.  It’s just… a short blonde man and a tall dark haired man.  Reminded me of us a bit too much is all.  Like I said, it was nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” John said softly, leaning against Sherlock, “If you saw it and thought that, then it’s not nothing.”

“But it’s stupid,” Sherlock continued to argue and John rolled his eyes.

“Whatever you say, Sherlock.  When are you going to go see the crime scene?”

“Later today.  When it’s dark.”

“Why does it have to be dark?”

“Because the stupid police will be done tromping around the place by then.”

John laughed, “That’s true.”  He sobered up a bit after and glanced down at Sherlock, “Would you, um, mind… if I came with you this time?”

Sherlock looked up at him quickly, surprised at his question, their faces only inches apart and John scooted away awkwardly to put more space between them.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Really really?”

“What?  Are you five?”  John laughed, “Yes, really really.”

Sherlock stared at him for a bit longer before looking back down at the file, trying to keep the smile off his face, which really just made his lips twitch as he tried to control them.  John just smiled and gave a small shake of his head before he stood, going back to his seat.  He crossed his legs and settled back against the chair, returning his attention to the screen.  When Sherlock finished reading over everything, he handed the file over to John, who took his time looking at it all while Sherlock folded himself up in his chair, losing himself to his thoughts.

As the day drew on, John had to run down to Speedy’s to get them their lunch and they both decided they would rather just order delivery for dinner than leave the house for it, it finally came time for them to leave.  Sherlock was shocked again as he watched John grab his jacket, but recovered by pretending to make sure he had everything he would need.  He searched through his coat pockets, finding his lock pick kit, magnifying glass, and everything else he usually took, even if he wouldn’t need it.  Sherlock just wanted to look busy instead of just standing there, staring at John.

“Ready?”  Came John’s voice and he glanced up sharply at the question and looked John over.  While he had been fidgeting around, John had gotten ready and Sherlock could even make out the shape of a small torch in his jacket pocket.  He cursed himself mentally for not thinking of that.  They were going to the place at night and looking around.  Of course they might need torches.  He quickly went to his bedroom – their bedroom?  He didn’t know anymore and he didn’t want to ask – and grabbed his own small torch out of his bedside table.  Sherlock raced back out, pocketing it as he came back up to John.

“Yes, ready.”

“Good.  Then let’s go,” John smiled, turning to head down the stairs.  Sherlock took that moment to smile as well, following after John.  He liked seeing these steps John took toward going back to the man he had been.  Sherlock knew it was impossible for John to completely return to his old self, but he had been overjoyed when John’s injuries healed and he didn’t need his cane anymore.  He had promptly taken John to one of the Thames’s beaches and built a small bonfire where they burnt it, then promptly ran, giggling like children, to not get caught by the police.  So, now that John was taking a case with him again, he wondered what he could do this time.  He’d figure it out while he was there.

Sherlock flagged down a cab and gave the cabbie the address a block away, not wanting to arrive right in front of the crime scene incase the police were still there or, more likely, just Lestrade to yell at him and say he was late.  Of course, he also didn’t want to stop right in front of the place incase his theory was correct.  They’d have to sneak into the house.  Any other way would jeopardize the case.  The two of them would have to be quiet and not leave any sign they had been there.  Just grab what he needed and get out.  He tented his hands in front of his face as he thought over all his ideas and hypotheses.

John glanced over at him, smiling softly as he watched Sherlock get lost in his mind palace.  It was nice to see him actually get lost in a case again.  Usually when he was like this, he was only halfway there.  The other half of his attention was focused on John and his movements, eyes tracking him around the flat while he thought.  It had been unsettling for John at first, telling Sherlock to look elsewhere, but Sherlock had usually done what he had asked, pouting and turning slightly to look at his skull, Billy.  It was an odd name and John still didn’t understand why Sherlock had chosen it, given the names he and his brother had.  When Sherlock had finally told him the skull’s name all those years ago (before the fall, even), gaze elsewhere out of embarrassment, John had half been expecting a name like Alphonse.  Anything but Billy, really.

They were both pulled out of their separate thoughts when they arrived at the address Sherlock had given and John quickly paid for the fare as Sherlock bounded out, already looking up and down the street.  John thanked the cabbie and climbed out, going to join Sherlock on the sidewalk.  It was chilly out and he tucked his hands away in his pockets, even tried to hide his chin and mouth behind his jacket collar.  Sherlock turned, looking him over and, before John could do anything, removed his scarf and started looping it around John’s neck.

“Hey, wait-“ he said, words cut off as Sherlock tugged his scarf a bit as he finished tying it, and John ended with a small mumble, “I don’t need it.”

“Of course you do.  It’s cold out and you haven’t even got gloves on,” he waved his hands, his usual leather gloves on them.  “It’s ridiculous John.  I can’t take you anywhere,” he teased, a small smile on his face.

John gave a small laugh, “You may not be able to take me anywhere, but you can be sure as hell I’ll come anyway.”

He grinned, starting to walk in a different direction so they could sneak around from the back, “Good.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

John followed after him, hand going up to run over the scarf, like he had to remind himself that it was there.  He ducked his head, hiding his smile behind the material.  It smelt of Sherlock and he decided he liked Sherlock’s smell.  It was probably one of the reasons why he was able to sleep next to the man and not have a full blown panic attack the next morning when he woke up next to someone else’s body heat, mind sluggishly trying to catch up.  He stopped behind Sherlock as he watched the man climb over a back fence.  Groaning, he jumped up, grabbing onto the top, and pulled himself over.  As he tumbled down into the yard, he glared up at Sherlock.

“Really?”  He asked.

Sherlock grinned, “Only five more to go.”  He turned and started toward the next fence, climbing over it with ease.  John sighed and dusted off his jacket before starting after him.  When they finally arrived John let out a small groan of relief, catching his breath again.  Sherlock seemed totally fine, almost buzzing with energy as he got out his lock picking kit and went to the back door.  Quickly and silently, he got it open, carefully swinging the door open for them.  John entered first, getting out his torch, but not turning it on just yet, not sure what they were looking for here.  Right now it just seemed as though they were doing something illegal since the Yard was long gone.  He just hoped they weren’t contaminating the scene by being here, but he figured Sherlock was smarter than that.

Coming in behind him, Sherlock silently closed the door, then came up to him and put a hand on his arm, “Let’s go look at the bedroom first.”  John nodded and let Sherlock lead the way, finally clicking on his torch and keeping the beam low to look over the crime scene.  It was relatively clean, no blood, but there were little evidence tags scattered around the room where the bodies and everything else had been.  Sherlock crouched down by where the bodies had been, looking it all over, and got up after, looking through the drawers and closet, sifting through the items.  He moved around while John remained stationary, watching him.  After a while, Sherlock looked up, meeting his gaze.

“I’ve been wondering for a while…” Sherlock started and John raised a brow, “You don’t like water or rain, but when you were in the hospital and came up to get me on the roof… it was raining.”

John frowned, “It was?”  Sherlock nodded, standing up straight.  “I guess… I didn’t even notice.  It didn’t even register in my mind.  All I could see was you back on that roof, taking a step off and falling to your death and that was more important than anything else that was happening.  I couldn’t lose you again,” he ended softly, looking down at his hands, anywhere but Sherlock as he felt a light blush color his cheeks.  His reliance on Sherlock really was embarrassing at times and it was too much for him to even continue looking the man in the eye.  It was silent for a while, then a light shuffle of Sherlock’s clothes rustling together as he walked over, putting a hand on John’s wrist.

“And I can’t lose you again, either.  I’m not leaving unless you want me to.”

John’s head snapped back up, fixing the other man with a glare, “I’m never asking you to leave me again.  The last time I did, you nearly took your own life again.  So don’t ever bloody think I’m going to be stupid enough to utter those words once more in my lifetime.  I’m going to grow old with you, got it?  Because you’re my best mate and I couldn’t ask for more.”

He looked at John, bewildered, “But… what about marriage, finding a woman and settling down with her.]?”

“I don’t think anyone would want to settle down with me, Sherlock.  I’ve got a body covered in scars, PTSD for multiple occasions, a list of fears a mile long… I think I can count marriage out.  Sex doesn’t even sound appealing to me anymore.”

“Well,” Sherlock said softly, “I would like to think you settled down with me quite nicely, so don’t say no one would want to.  I want to.”

John blushed, “Well, I guess, but- that wasn’t- um- but-“ he cut himself off, just staring up at Sherlock as John tried to work it all out.  He knew what the other man had meant.  Sherlock probably wasn’t even aware of the complications of his own words, as he had his head tilted, a expression of confusion and amusement as he watched John stumble over his words.  Finally John just sighed, a small smile on his face, “Yeah, I guess I have settled down quite nice with you.  Even stole your bed a bit.”

Sherlock smiled back, “I don’t mind.  I find I sleep better when you’re around, actually.”

John was about to say he felt the same way when there was a thud from elsewhere in the house.  Immediately they both clicked off their torches, pressing close to one another as they listened.  After a while of no more sounds John let out a sigh of relief while Sherlock let out one of disappointment.  John looked over at him and belatedly noticed he had a death grip on the other man’s arm.  Carefully he pried his hand off, dropping it back down to his side and cleared his throat as he took a step away.

“I guess something fell,” Sherlock said softly, keeping his voice quiet, but didn’t turn his torch back on.   “I’ve seen everything there is to see in this room.  I’ll go check the sitting room and you look through the kitchen.”

John nodded, “Okay, what am I looking for?”

“Anything that would be out of place.  A gift, maybe.  Perhaps there was a jealous person in the mix or one of them was cheating on the other, got nice gifts from them.  There was nothing out of the ordinary in their personal affects in the bedroom, but men don’t usually wear jewelry so it’s harder to tell than it is with woman who suddenly get nice earrings or necklaces.”

“What would be in the kitchen?”

“We just need to keep looking through all the rooms.  Leave no stone unturned, right?”

John nodded, “All right.”

They made their way out, going to their respective rooms and started searching around them.  Sherlock sorted through the DVDs, looking them over.  A few were brand new, still encased in clear plastic, and he set them to the side incase they meant something.  He moved through the books, trying to see if there was anything that was out of place, but most of the books seemed old and used and those that were not were ones that Sherlock recognized as recent best sellers.

He sighed, gaze landing on some photographs of the pair, including their wedding day, and went over to look them over.  He wished he hadn’t told John what he had seen when he had been looking at the case file back at the flat.  They did look similar to them in a way.  Short blonde, tall brunette.  They looked so happy in their tuxedos as a new couple and Sherlock couldn’t help but be confused as he looked over the pictures of the smiling couple.  Why would someone kill them?

John, meanwhile, looked through the kitchen, opening the cupboards and looking through the food they had as well as their dishes.  He felt ridiculous, looking through the pantry, like he was taking inventory of their stock.  It felt as though none of it really mattered.  There were a lot of fruits and vegetables, though, he noticed, and remembered that one of the men had been a vegan.  He was becoming increasingly bored as he looked through all the kitchen gadgets they had – who needed a bloody banana slicer? – and weird decorations – why did they need a clock on the wall of a tea cup? – they had strewn about the room.

He opened the fridge last, gazing over what was inside.  It was nice looking into a fridge with no body parts, though, just lots of leftovers.  He had to give it that.  He was about to close it when something caught his eye and he glanced to the shelves on the door.  A half drunk glass of milk.  One was vegan… the other was lactose intolerant.  So why would they have a glass of milk in the fridge?  And why would it be only half drunk?

John frowned as he closed the door of the fridge with a small thud.  He was about to turn away and go get Sherlock when a chill ran down his spine.  Opening the fridge, he closed it again, listening to the sound.  It sounded exactly like the thud they had heard earlier.  Thoroughly creeped out, he started back toward where Sherlock was.  He passed by an open doorway and stopped after, his mind catching up to him, telling him he saw a silhouette in the room.

“Sherlock?”  He said, hopefully, and backed up to look into the room.  Nothing was there.  He moved him, senses on high alert as he looked around the room.  He heard Sherlock answer him with a questioning call of his name from a different part of the house.  John sighed, rubbing his eyes.  He was still paranoid, it seemed.  John turned to answer Sherlock when suddenly there was a cloth over his mouth and nose, an arm around his chest, pinning his upper arms  to his sides.  He only got to struggle for a bit, hands coming up to try and claw at the arm holding the cloth, but then he felt his strength leave him and he slumped down into darkness.

“John?”  Sherlock asked again, moving toward the kitchen, wondering why John hadn’t answered him.  A quick look into the kitchen told him John was not in there and he went off to check the next room.  He stepped inside the dark room, looking around, even clicking on his torch to look over the room, but nothing was out of place and John was still missing.  He poked his head back out of the room, looking down the hallway.  Had John had a panic attack and left?  He had not heard a door open, though, and he had not seen John while he had been walking to the kitchen.  Sherlock frowned, looking around once more before wandering out of the room to look elsewhere.

\--

John groaned, tilting his head up straight from where it had slumped to the side.  He had a crick in his neck, he could already tell.  He blinked in the light and glanced up, seeing a single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.  His head was fuzzy and he tried to connect the dots.  He sat up straight in his chair when he heard footsteps behind him and everything came rushing back.  He tugged on his arms and found them tied to the armrests, his legs tied down as well.  Pure terror raced through his body at this familiar setting.  The footsteps stopped behind him and he couldn’t bring himself to look back at who it was.

“Hello… John.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and happy holidays!
> 
> It's still the 25th here!
> 
> Sorry for the long wait, guys. My life has been kind of hectic. But hopefully the next chapter should be out sooner.

Ten minutes and still no sign of John.  Sherlock was on the verge of a full blown panic attack of his own.  He had texted John multiple times, even called him as well, but had immediately been taken to the message for his voice mail, meaning his phone was off or dead.  He knew it wasn’t the latter, though.  John was always meticulous about his things, always making sure they were in order and charged because he always knew that their life was hectic and full of surprises and John always liked to be prepared for if something happened.  No, _when_ something happened.

He chewed on his bottom lips, looking around the kitchen for the fifth time as though he expected to suddenly find John curled up in one of the cupboard or hiding in the corner.  But John was still nowhere to be seen.  He hoped it wasn’t Sebastian’s doing.  He had promised himself he would never let John be under the mercy of that man ever again.  Sherlock figured the man was still in hiding, nursing his ego and planning his next step and, when he did, Sherlock was going to finish the job he hadn’t been able to previously because of unfortunate circumstances and unforeseen trickery used against him.

There was always the other option that he was somewhere in the house, somewhere Sherlock hadn’t looked yet.  Or somewhere that wasn’t visible.  Perhaps a hidden room or something else of a similar matter straight out of a horrible movie.  He began looking around, staring and measuring the walls in his mind to see if any didn’t match up.  In the end he only ended up more panicked and upset than he had been before he began.  He had constantly gotten sidetracked while trying to do that usually simple task, his mind to preoccupied with the cloud of worry that had descended over it in regards to John’s health.

As a last resort he knew he would have to contact his brother or Lestrade, neither person he was really looking forward to calling and telling of his mistake.  Lestrade would be angry at him while his brother would be one of cold superiority and he didn’t think he could handle either at this time.  He grit his teeth, heading back to the kitchen to look it over yet another time to see if there was some clue in here, as it was the last room he knew without a doubt John had been in.  He looked through the collection of food cans the couple had had in their cupboards, clearly not a fan of fresh food whenever they had to cook at home or they just didn’t have the time for it.

Sherlock moved to look through the fridge, pushing through the cold items they had, vegan options that would go to waste along with a small portion of leftovers they had.  He moved back with a sigh, looking over the door’s selection, eyes immediately noticing the milk.  Where was the carton for the rest of the milk?  And, for that matter, why was it there?  Perhaps it was soy milk?  It didn’t have the coloring of soy milk, though.  He went over to the kitchen bin to search through it for a carton, wondering if that was the last of the milk.  Nothing there and there were other items in the bin which means that it hadn’t been taken out for a day or two, no need to check the wheelie bin.  Besides, now that he looked at the glass again, he could see a trail of it from the lip of the glass, as though it had been drunk from recently.  They hadn’t been alone in the house, just as he had feared.

Sherlock had thought of it as a possibility, one of many, but he thought one of his other solutions would have been the case.  Not this one, anything but this one.  If he had been sure it was this answer, he would have made John stay at home.  He moved out of the room, trying to deduce where John would have been standing when he had called out Sherlock’s name and eventually stopped in front of that dark room again.  He stared inside at the curtained window across from him.  Had John just been coming toward him, having seen the milk as well?  Or had he just seen nothing and was coming back to him.  He shut his eyes, trying to remember the way John’s voice had sounded when saying his name.  Everything was a clue at this point.  His hands tented up in front of his face, pointer fingers against his lips as he thought it over.

It had had an edge of fright to it and a speck of hope as though John had been hoping Sherlock was… closer?  Already there?  His brow furrowed as he considered that possibility, the terror that must have been coursing through John when he realized whoever it was was not Sherlock.  A thump broke him out of his thoughts and he opened his eyes again, blinking a few times to get them used to the darkness.  That had been below him.  Instantly he swept his torch over the floor, having not looked down before.  There was a rug on the floor and he walked over onto it.  It sounded hollow beneath in the far right corner.

He got off the rug and crouched down, pulling the corner back a bit.  As soon as he saw a metal ring, he held his torch in his mouth as he threw the rug out of the way and grabbed onto the ring, tugging the trapdoor up.  Of course the bloody Scotland Yard would completely miss this.  The hinges were silent, greased, but he was sure hHe didn’t care about how much noise he was making.  If the person had wanted John dead, they would have done it already.  Besides, there was no time for sneaking anymore.

“Get the bloody hell away from me!”

He instantly threw the trapdoor all the way open and started down at John’s voice.  He had been expecting it to be some sort of crawl space under the house, but it was quite tall, a storage area most likely, though Sherlock had to duck a bit because of his height.  If the person had been able to be down here comfortably, either they were used to it or of a shorter statue, a shorter man or a woman, then.  He moved quickly down the passageway, torch back in his hand and lighting up the entire area.  He could see a room at the end, light coming from it.  As he got closer he switched off his torch as it was no longer necessary, and finally found himself in the room.  Immediately, he noticed the ceiling was higher here and he was finally able to stand straight.

One side was set up for someone, a sleeping bag on the ground, luggage next to it.  There was even a small fridge, probably from where the mysterious milk in the upstairs fridge had originated from, and a microwave plugged into the outlet near the top of the wall.  A trolley case was set down on its back, zipped open and clothes visible.  But he quickly tore his eyes away from it, not bothering to try and deduce anything about it because the occupant of the secret room was right on the other side of it, pressing against the wall with John’s gun in their hands while John brandished a broken chair at them.

Sherlock pulled out his own gun, moving closer.  It was a woman, hair falling over her face as she looked between the two of them.  Suddenly her expression turned into a sneer as she glared at them in disgust and contempt.

“You’re sick.  Both of you.  Dylan and Justin, too,” she spat out the words and Sherlock frowned, looking her over.

“Last I checked, I was free of all illnesses,” he said softly, “Now, put down that gun or I’ll be forced to use mine.”

John glanced over at him out of the corner of his eye, chair still raised above his head in an attack position.  He still could feel the terror from earlier gripping at his heart, which was currently trying to beat its way out of his chest.  But he just had to keep repeating over and over in his head, a mantra of sorts, that this wasn’t Moran.  She hadn’t even been able to keep him down and he had gotten out before she had gotten to his gun she had set aside.  He had broke one of the armrests and bruised his wrists in the process, but it had been worth it to get out of that horrifyingly familiar situation.

When he had first heard her voice saying his name, he had felt a sense of confusion with a hint of anger that it wasn’t actually Moran, that he couldn’t smash the man’s head in, but then relief had rushed over him that it wasn’t Moran, his body and mind conflicted at what he wanted.  In the end, he was left with nothing but the anger and he really wanted nothing more than to get out of this place, go back home, and have a nice, relaxing cup of tea.  And sleep.  He knew once his adrenaline and anger wore off, he would slump down on the nearest, soft horizontal surface and just sleep the time away.  His attention was drawn back to the woman when she spoke again, venom still in her voice.

“Oh, that’s what you all say.  That you’re not sick in the head for what you do.  Justin poisoned Dylan, twisted him into a thing.  He took my Dylan and poisoned him.  So I did the right thing, the only possible solution.  I poisoned Justin back.  Why did Dylan have to save him?  He was free!  Free from that evil life he was tricked into.”

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes as he realized what the woman was going on about, “Dylan dumped you for Justin.”

“No.  He was poisoned.  Justin made Dylan sick.  I’m sure Dylan wanted no part in any of his homosexual lifestyle.”

“Oh, yes, no part in it.  That explains why they married and got their own house.”

“Poisoned!  My poor Dylan didn’t know until it was already too late.  I tried to help, but in the end I was too late and now he’s dead!  My Dylan is dead!”

“Because of you.  Justin didn’t poison Dylan, you did.  And quite literally, too.  Congratulations on stumping the truly amazing Scotland Yard with your accidental murder, though.  And here I was actually hoping a Shakespeare murder was running rampant through London’s streets.  Such a shame.”

“Shut up, you  disease!”  She hissed, “I’ve heard of you!  Sherlock Holmes, the incredible consulting detective that faked his own death.  If you asked me, I think you shouldn’t have faked it.  Just done the right thing and actually taken yourself out that day.”

“But I didn’t ask you, now did I?”  Sherlock raised a brow.

She huffed, narrowing her eyes, and the gun moved to point at Sherlock rather than John.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John stiffen at the movement, muscles in his arms shaking from holding the chair for so long.

“Why didn’t you tell the police I was here?”  She asked and he frowned at the question, “You knew I was here, didn’t you?  Somewhere in this house.  That’s why you came back, searching at night.  I couldn’t even hear you enter, you had an advantage, but you still didn’t contact them.  Bet you used your little bitch here for bait.  Heard about him, too.  He dated woman and now look at him, poisoned by you, just like Dylan was poisoned by Justin.  You weren’t even surprised to see me-“

“Well, you did kidnap John.  Of course I wouldn’t be surprised to see you after-“

“Oh, here he goes, making excuses,” her eyes flickered over to John, “Knew he’d come after you, want you back in his clutches.  They always do, don’t they?”  Her gaze snapped back to Sherlock, “You knew I was here before I took him, you just wanted to play hero, didn’t you?  Poison him further and-“

Sherlock watched in shock as, apparently, John had had enough and smashed the chair over her head and knocking her out immediately.  He was frowning as he stalked forward, snatching up his gun and tucking it away.  Sherlock opened his mouth to ask him what that had been about when John turned toward him, redirecting his glare at Sherlock.  He lowered his gun, feeling like a deer stuck in the headlights of a car.

“Well?”  John hissed and Sherlock snapped out of it enough to put his gun away.

“Well what?”  He questioned back.

“Was she right?  Did you know there was someone in this house?”

“Did she hurt you?”  He asked, hoping to change the subject, but the way John sharpened his glare, piercing right through him with it, told him otherwise.

“You did.  Didn’t you?  You fucking knew there was someone here and you bloody let me be kidnapped by them!”

“John, wait!”  He yelled after him as John made his way back toward the trapdoor, “Yes, there was a possibility of someone in the house having committed the murders, but I had other solutions as well.  I didn’t know it would be this one, I just…”  He quickly hurried after John, “I didn’t want this to be the conclusion, John.  I wanted it to be anything else.  Anything but this one.  You have to trust me on this, John.”

John said nothing, disappearing up into the house and Sherlock quickly climbed up after him, trying to keep up.  John was already leaving the room as Sherlock emerged and he had to rely on his long gait to catch up with the other man.

“You- you wanted to come, John.  And I wanted you to.  I really wanted you to come, have it be like old times again, so I just figured – hoped – it would be one of the other possibilities in my mind and-“

John stopped near the back door they had entered through and spun around to glare at Sherlock, “You wanted it to be like old times?  It won’t be.  Not ever again.  Not since you killed yourself in front of me.  Not since I was kidnapped.  Now, why don’t you stop trying to excuse your behavior, Sherlock Holmes, and call Greg before your new friend downstairs wakes up.  I’m not sticking around.”  He slammed the door behind him when he left and Sherlock opened his mouth to call out after John, but knew it was pointless.  He pulled out his phone instead, contacting Lestrade quickly.

* * *

 

He had half been expecting to arrive back home after answering and listening to Lestrade’s questions and complaints – of which he had too many – and find John coming out the front door, packed and ready to go.  But, as he unlocked the front door to the building, he could see no immediate evidence that this was the case.  He made his way slowly up the stairs to the flat, going through the open door.  John was sitting on the sofa instead of his chair, arms and legs folding with his fingers tapping, jaw set.  So he was still angry, then.  Sherlock licked his lips before entering.

“I did what I had to, what I wanted to.  I wasn’t 100% sure about what the outcome, the solution to the case, was going to be.  And, yes, while that had been one of the possibilities, there were several others.  I wasn’t about to go turning down your offer to come with me because of some percentage that there was someone else there.”

John’s gaze shifted over to him, eyes narrowed and hard, “And what about when you knew there was, without a doubt, someone else there?  Why didn’t you tell me to leave then?”

“Because I didn’t know until you disappeared and I started piercing it all together.  And if I could do this over, I would change it so I would go to the kitchen first instead of you.  Then none of this would have happened.”

“Yes, but you didn’t,” John snapped, “And I was, once again, put into a situation like that because of you.  I thought it was him, Sherlock.  I thought he had come back to- to use me again,” he got up face Sherlock, “I thought about just leaving again, finding my own place.”

“But you can’t!”  Sherlock quickly said, “You’ve just come back.  You can’t leave again.”

“I said I _thought_ about it, Sherlock!”  John yelled back at him, “And what makes you think as though you can control what I do, anyway?  I’m not yours.  I’m not your pet, your dog!”

“John, I didn’t-“

“I’m a human being and I should be treated like one!  I’m not fragile, weak!  I don’t need special treatment!”  He started pacing, moving past Sherlock.

“I- I don’t understand what you’re saying, John,” Sherlock said, confused, but John ignored him, continuing to pace and rant and, after a while, Sherlock realized John was simply yelling at himself, at how weak he saw himself.  John suddenly stopped, heading toward Sherlock’s bedroom and he moved after him, worried what he was going to do.  He found him rummaging through his things he had slowly started moving down to Sherlock’s room.  While things had been slowly moved down, it had been steady and Sherlock guessed that about half of John’s things were now in his room, his favorite jumpers hung up in the closet alongside Sherlock’s button up shirts.  Sherlock liked seeing his closet like that, though he didn’t understand why.

John suddenly let out a frustrated groan and Sherlock moved closer, “What are you searching for?”

“Get off my back,” John growled, standing back up, “I just… I want to be normal again.  I want to be able to make tea without it taking ages.  I want to be able to take a shower without having to use a bloody sponge for it all.  I want- fuck!”  He suddenly swore and Sherlock flinched at the harshness the word was uttered as John took in a shuddering breath to try and calm himself, “Whatever.  It doesn’t matter.  I’m not going to get everything I want.”

“What else do you want?  Tell me, John,” Sherlock asked, knowing John had every right to decline telling him, but he still wanted to know, to see if there was some way, no matter how small, he could help his friend after all he had caused.

John was silent for a while and Sherlock figured it would stay that way but then he spoke, voice quiet even in the still room, “I want what I can never have.  Maybe I could have had it before, but probably not.  But, now, after what I’ve been through, what I was put through… I don’t know if it’s possible for me.”

“And what is that, John?”  He eagerly asked, wanting to keep John talking.  He reached out to put a hand on John’s shoulder and was surprised when John suddenly slapped it off.

“Don’t touch me, Sherlock!”  John hissed at him and Sherlock took a step back to try and get away from his anger.  He didn’t understand fully what was going on with John, why he was behaving this way.  Sherlock only knew he was confused, possibly lost, and just didn’t know what to do, acting on basic instinct alone, like a cornered animal.  He took another step back to given John more space and saw the other man’s expression change, turning from anger to sadness.  Tilting his head, he looked his friend over, noting how his shoulders slumped forward, hands shaking at his sides.  This time, instead of reaching for John’s shoulder, he reached for one of his hands, gently holding onto it as though it was made of glass.

John squeezed at his hand and suddenly pulled Sherlock close, other hand going up to hold onto his collar and pull him down for a rough kiss.  Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise while John’s closed.  He kept kissing Sherlock over and over again and the taller man felt like he had taken root, grown into the floorboards with no clue what to do, no means of moving away from this.  After what seemed like a millennium but, according to Sherlock internal clock, was really only 12 seconds, John pulled back, eyes opening once more to look at Sherlock.  But they didn’t really see him, too clouded over.

“You don’t taste like bubblegum.”

That was the first thing John said and Sherlock frowned, “Of course I don’t taste like bubblegum.  I don’t chew-“  His breath was knocked out of him as John practically threw him onto the bed and he managed one bounce on the mattress and a “John-“ before he was upon Sherlock once more, bending over him, hands in his hair as he kissed Sherlock like John was a drowning man and Sherlock was his air and Sherlock could only hold on for the ride, reaching up to put his hands on John’s hips, eyes finally closing as he began kissing John back as best he could.  He was awkward and he knew it, clumsy and inexperienced.

John was laughing.  He hadn’t realized it at first, but once he heard that achingly familiar sound, he opened his eyes and looked up at the other man in confusion.  John pulled back from the kiss, covering his mouth as he continued and Sherlock wondered if he was starting to crack, lose his mind.

“John?”

“You’re absolute rubbish at this,” John chuckled and Sherlock blinked in surprise, then frowned.

“That’s my line.  I’m not one to know about physical contact such as this, but I know that you’re not supposed to attack someone suddenly without asking if you can kiss them first.”

As soon as the words were out, he wished he could take them back as he watched the blood drain from John’s face and he moved to get off of Sherlock, “R-right.  I’m sorry.  Shit, I’m sorry.”

He wrapped his arms around John and rolled them over so now he was on top.  He was scared it would frighten John, for him to be in this position, but he was desperate at this moment.  Finally, he could do something that seemed to help John.  Sherlock may have been completely terrified himself about the whole matter and completely lost about kissing, touching, and everything relationship related, especially with John.  He didn’t want to ruin this, whatever it was.  They already shared a flat, shared a life, shared a bedroom.  It seemed appropriate for them to share an emotion for each other.

“My answer is yes, John, to that unvoiced question.  Yes, you can kiss me.”

John tried to swallow past the lump that was forming in his throat and he propped himself up to give Sherlock a much different kiss than before.  Hesitant and light, a brush of lips against Sherlock, but even that small contact sent tingles down his spine.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

He smiled and shook his head, “No, John.  Thank you.”

John gave him another kiss, then chuckled again, “First thing first: I’m teaching you how to kiss better.”


	16. Not a chapter, sorry

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm probably never going to continue this work. I started it during a shit time in my life when I was thinking some dark, borderline suicidal thoughts and this was a way for me to kind of vent. I may orphan or delete it in the future, just to get it off my account.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, reviews, britpicking, whatever would be wonderful!


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